The  Inverted  Torch 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Inverted  Torch 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

SAMUEL  JOHN  ALEXANDER 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

A.    M.    ROBERTSON 

1912 


COPYRIGHT  1912 
BY  SAMUEL  JOHN  ALEXANDER 


THE    ARGONAUT    PRESS 


The  publishers  of  the  Century,  Sunset,  Out  West,  and  the 
Smart  Set  have  kindly  permitted  the  author  to  include  in  this 
volume  several  of  his  poems  that  had  appeared  in  these 
magazines,  and  their  courtesy  is  here  gratefully  acknowledged. 


242412 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

DEDICATION 9 

THE    INVERTED    TORCH 11 

OUR  LADY  OF  SORROWS   (To   San  Francisco) 13 

OUR  LADY  OF  VICTORIES  (To  Loyal  San  Fran 
ciscans  wherever  they  may  dwell) 17 

THE    HALLS    OF   FANCY 20 

THE  WEAVER 22 

THE   PAGAN'S    PLEA 24 

THE    DENIED    CHRIST ._ 25 

CLOTH    OF    GOLD ." 27 

VIRGINIA'S  GIFT  28 

THE  OLD  SOUTH  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  LINCOLN  29 

THE  ANGRY  RED  STAR   (To  Ambrose  Bierce) 31 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN 33 

"THESE  CHRISTS  THAT  DIE  UPON  THE  BARRI 
CADES"— 1871  36 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE 43 

THE  SONG  OF  RUPERT'S  MEN 45 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  ALFRED  TENNYSON  (This 
Dedication  of  the  "Divine  Message" — An  Un 
finished  Poem) 47 

GOD  SAVE  THE  KING   (To   Mother  England) 62 

THE  KING'S  TRYST 64 

THE   MOTHER   CALL 66 

SONNET   (To   Cromwell) 68 

ELIZABETH,  THE  QUEEN..  69 


PAGE 

THE  GOLDEN  ROSE  (To  H.  R.  H.  the  Princess  Henry 

of  Battenberg)   73 

TO    RUDYARD    KIPLING 76 

A  DREAM  OF  ITALY 78 

HENRY  V  OF  FRANCE 80 

THE  GHOST  OF  ITYS 82 

A  HEALTH  TO  THE  KING  (Of  Portugal) 83 

FRANCIS  I  AT  PAVIA 85 

AT  THE  TOURNAMENT 87 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE 88 

SONNET 89 

THE  RED  ROSE  OF  EARTH.  . . 90 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  GATE   (To  San  Francisco) 91 

THE  GOD  ON   HORSEBACK 92 

SONNET 93 

FEET  OF  CLAY 94 

TO  ONE  WHO  KNOWS 96 

-TO   SAN   FRANCISCO ' 97 

CHI-CA-GO!    CHI-CA-GO!   (At  San  Francisco,  April  18, 

1906)    . 99 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  DOME 101 

THE   ROSE   OF   PEACE    (To   a   Child  dead  at  the   foot 

of    Seventh    Street,    San    Francisco) 103 

THE   TRYST   OF   FATE 105 

TO  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 107 

THE  DIVORCE i^ 

TO   AMBROSE    BIERCE HI 

"AH,  GIVE  US   BUT  YESTERDAY!" 112 

A  LETTER  TO  A  GHOST 113 

THE  TOUCH  OF  THE  HUMAN  (April,  1906) 117 

THE  SILENT  HOUSE 121 

X  THE  BROTHERS 123 

TO    JOAQUIN    MILLER 125 

vi 


PAGE 

,'  .,IHE  WAR  SHIPS  OF  THE  SKIES 126 

GLOWING  EMBERS 127 

THE  LEPER 130 

MY  LITTLE   GHOST 131 

GOD'S   HILL   AT   BELMONT 133 

SONNET 134 

THE  HILLS  OF  OCEAN  VIEW 135 

DEAD  JOY 138 

TO  SING  LEE  (At  Millbrae,  April  18,   1906) 139 

THE    CALIFORNIA    POPPY 141 

IN  NOVEMBER 142 

THE  KING  IN  DARIEN 143 

TO  THE  NEMOPHILA  ("Baby  Blue  Eyes") 145 

THE    PRODIGAL    DAUGHTERS 146 

THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 147 

ELECTRA 148 

THE  BRIDAL 149 

THE  CHOICE 151 

SONNET  (To  the  Dear  People) 152 

"MYSELF  AM  HELL" 153 

WHOLESALE  ONLY 155 

SONNET   (To  Life) 157 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  KEATS 158 

OUR  LADY  OF  WELCOME 159 

SONNET  (Prescribed  for  Poets  and  Inscribed  to  Editors)  160 

THE  THEFT  OF  WINTER  (In  California) 161 

THE  PHILISTINE 163 

SONNET    ("Dead,    Dead,    Dead") 164 

THE  WHITE  ROSE  AT  BERESFORD  (To  E.  W.) .  .  .  .  165 

TO  LINCOLN   (The  Old  South  and  the  New) 167 

THE  SEEKERS  (San  Francisco,  April  18) 169 

HER  BIRTHDAY.     APRIL  18  (To  San  Francisco) 172 

SONNET   (To  the  Columbine) 173 

vii 


PAGE 

THE   IMPREGNABLE   CASTLE 174 

THE  THREE  AT  STANFORD 175 

TO  MRS.  N.  C.  P 176 

"THE    REGIONS    WHICH    ARE    HOLY    LAND"    (W. 

T.  P.) 177 

THE  HOUSE  OF  SPLENDID  VISIONS 201 

THE  WILL  OF  GOD  (Inscribed,  Without  Permission, 
to  the  "Presidents"  of  the  Central  American  "Re 
publics")  203 

THE  SHADOW  BEFORE— AT  NEW  YEAR'S 205 

TO  THE  WOMAN  (Writer  of  the  Battle  Hymn) 208 

GOD  AND  THE  POET 209 

THE  PASSING  OF  JOY 211 

GOD  DEFEND  THE  RIGHT 213 

THE  GOLDEN  CUPS  OF  GOD  (Inscribed,  Without  Per 
mission,  to  Theodore  Roosevelt) 215 

THE  CALL  TO  ARMS 219 

"THE  GIFT  TO  DIE"   (To  My  Lady  Fortune) 221 

THE  GOLDEN  SPURS  OF  GOD 225 

THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SOUTH  TO  LINCOLN 233 

MISERERE   DOMINE   (October   10,   1911) 235 

THE   PRAYER  OF  THE  WEST    (Judge  Thou  Between 

Them)    237 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  EAST  (Judge  Thou  Between  Them)   240 

THE  POET'S  PROTOTYPE 243 

THE  MUSE  TO  A  MERCENARY  POET 244 


DEDICATION 

Welcome,  my  masters !     Ye  be  come  to  buy 
At  market  prices,  and  with  due  regard 
To  your  own  interest,  lest  ye  should  award 

For  such  commodity  a  price  too  high, 

A  Soul.     Then,  marry,  such  to  sell  have  I. 
Yet,  as  'tis  somewhat  time  and  passion  marred, 
God  wot,  ye  shall  not  find  my  dealing  hard ; 

For  sell  I  must,  so  will  it  please  ye  try? 

Here  be  strange  wares,  intangible  and  frail ; 

Some  tarnished  tinsel  from  some  Cloth  of  Gold; 
A  bursted  bubble  from  a  fairy  tale; 

Some  bitter  memories  of  a  birthright  sold ; 
A  talent  buried  deep  beyond  avail; 

An  ancient  promise,  unfulfilled  from  old. 


THE  INVERTED  TORCH 

I  have  paused  at  Thy  Shrine  in  the  porch 
Where  the  acolytes  kneel  and  adore, 
But  I  went  from  their  midst,  who  am  more 

To  the  Innermost  Holies  that  scorch 

With  the  flame  of  Thy  Torch. 

Yea,  My  Lord,  I  have  held  them  apart 
From  the  red  dripping  fingers  of  Life 
I  have  held  them  above  in  the  strife, 

And  I  vow  Thee  my  soul  and  my  heart 

In  the  shrine  where  Thou  art. 

I  have  lifted  my  soul  to  the  vow, 
And  my  heart  rises  up  nothing  loath 
Though  Thou  claimest  the  vow  and  the  oath, 

By  the  splendour  of  God  on  my  brow 

Though  Thou  claimest  them  now. 

Shall  I  fear  Thee,  My  Lord?     Shall  I  fear? 
When  the  torrent  of  life  is  repressed, 
By  Thy  hand  on  my  brow  and  my  breast, 

Thou,  visibly,  audibly  near 

To  the  eye  and  the  ear. 

I  have  served  where  the  light  was  withdrawn, 
I  have  sowed  for  a  harvest  of  wrath, 
And  the  whirlwind  hath  reaped  in  my  path 


11 


But  Thy  Torch  was  a  splendour  thereon 
And  the  Promise  of  Dawn. 

Though  the  Sun  God  belated  shall  twine 
In  the  rue  for  my  forehead,  a  leaf 
Of  His  laurel,  to  mock  at  my  grief 

I  will  turn  to  the  Torch  in  Thy  shrine 

And  its  splendour  divine. 


12 


OUR  LADY  OF  SORROWS 

TO     SAN     FRANCISCO. 

She  stood  in  Her  tattered  purple,  and  called  to  them  each 

by  name; 
And  Her  words  swept  out  on  the  winds  and  girdled  the 

earth  with  a  flame. 
Oh,  the  North  and  the  South  were  quickened;  the  East 

and  the  West  were  stirred; 
And    the    blood    flushed  up  in  their  cheeks;   their  souls 

flashed  up  to  Her  word. 
And  they  came  from  lands   far   sundered,  that  a   world 

away  divides, 
And  the  deserts  rose  against  them  and  the  Gods  of  the 

winds  and  tides; 
But  they  swept  above  and  beyond  them  and  came  to  the 

Golden  Gate 
Of  the  House  of  a  Thousand  Pillars,  where  Our  Lady  of 

Sorrows  sate; 
And  of  old  from  its  halls  of  banquet  a  myriad  shining 

lights 
Streamed  through  the  purple  shadows,  from  a  score  of 

star-crowned  heights. 
But  the   walls   were   fallen   asunder,   and  the  pillars   lay 

overthrown ; 
And  thrice  a  Queen  for  Her  sorrows,  She  sate  on  a  fallen 

stone ; 
For  Her  court  was  held  in  the  open;  Her  throne  was  set 

on  the  Way 


13 


That  stretches  its  breadth  of  splendour  from  Twin  Peaks 

down  to  the  bay; 
And    Her    robes   were    soiled   and   tattered,   their   purple 

dimmed  with  the  smoke, 
But  they  knelt  in  the  ashes  around  Her,  and  kissed  the 

hem  as  She  spoke. 
And  She  said :    "I  am  She  who  was  set  at  the  marches  of 

sea  and  of  land, 
With  the  crowns  of  the  world  on  my  brow,  and  girt  with 

the  sword  of  command; 
And  the  many  come  to  my  doorways;  they  enter,  abide 

and  pass 
Like  shadows  on  wind-driven  waters,  or  seeds  from  the 

wind-shaken  grass. 
Though  the   Gods  play  at  quoits  with  my  hills,  though 

Titans  creep  up  to  the  lure, 
Yet  I  watch  unafraid  from  my  heights  in  the  centre  of 

things  that  endure. 
Ye  are  lords  in  your  far  lying  lands  and  great  in  your 

lordships,  yet  still, 
Ye  are  tools  of  the  Gods  to  my  hands  to  hew  to  the  lines 

of  My  Will; 
From  nethermost  deeps  I  have  called;  ye  have  followed 

the  path  of  the  sun; 
Ye  are  four  where  your  rule  is  supreme ;  but  to  serve  and 

obey  me  but  one. 
Yet  with  rending  and  riving  of  earth  the  old  order  passes 

away; 
Ye  were  liegemen  on  yesterday's  heights,  but  brothers  in 

deeps  of  today. 

14 


And  as  sister  to  brother  I  charge  ye,  go  forth  from  me 

now  to  your  lands, 
That  ye  dazzle  the  eyes  of  the  Gods  with  the  gifts  of  your 

brotherly  hands; 
That  the  sails,  like  a  white-crested  torrent,  stream  out  an 

the  limitless  blue, 
With  the  gifts  that  shall  top  and  exceed  and  better  the 

best  that  I  knew; 
That  my  house,  reestablished,  shall  rise  four  square  to  the 

corners  of  earth, 
With  Honour  to  circle  the  walls,  and  with  Beauty  to  shine 

at  the  hearth; 
That  the  pillars  befluted  and  carved  like  a  forest  of  marble 

arise, 
And  the  domes  like  a  rainbow  of  bubbles  float  over  them 

into  the  skies. 
As  the  flick  of  a  whip  on  the  cheek,  that  brings  the  red 

flush  through  the  tan, 
I  adjure  ye  to  this  by  the  all  that  may  quicken  the  pulse 

of  the  Man; 
By  the  bond  of  the  human  between  us;  by  Honour,  the 

rock  that  abides 
In  the  turbulent  ocean  of  life,  midst  the  shifting  of  sands 

and  of  tides ; 

By  the  Day  when  our  souls  shall  be  weighed  in  the  bal 
ance,  unclothed  and  unshod, 

By  the  Spirit  Divine  in  the  man,  and  the  Absolute  Splen 
dour  of  God." 
She  spoke  and  they  heard  Her  in  silence ;  but  sudden  their 

faces  went  white, 


15 


They  were  dumb  from  a  stress  of  emotion,  and  pale  from 

excesses  of  light. 
And  they  spoke  no  word  to  Her  speaking,  but  bowed  with 

their  heads  in  the  dust, 
With  a  promise,  a  prayer  and  a  vow  to  compass  the  heights 

of  Her  trust. 
So  they  went  from  Her  presence  and  parted,  and  hastened 

each  one  to  his  land, 
That  their  tribute,  thrice  trebled,  might  thunder  a  torrent 

of  gold  to  Her  hand. 


16 


OUR  LADY   OF  VICTORIES 

TO   LOYAL   SAN    FRANCISCANS    WHEREVER   THEY   MAY   DWELL. 

Flung  from  off  our  Mother's  Bosom,  we  have  wandered 

from  Her  side, 

The  hills  rise  up  between  us  and  long  level  leagues  divide, 
But  wherever  we  may  roam 
Yet  our  hearts  are  still  at  Home, 
And  She  holds  them  in  Her  Keeping,  where  the  gaunt  and 

shattered  Dome 

Wraps  the  ocean  mists  about  it,  in  its  hurt  and  angry 
pride. 

We  have  built  our  household  altars  on  the  Padres'  Royal 

Way 

That  dallies  with  the  shining  hills,  that  loiters  with  the  bay, 
Where  the  spendthrift  Morning  spills 
Floods  of  light  upon  the  hills 
From  his  brimming  golden  flagons,  that  the  patient  Night 

refills, 

On  the  Alameda  hills  that   guard  the  gateways   of  the 
Day. 

God,  with  loving  purpose  lingered  o'er  the  primal  solitude, 
Smiled  content  upon  His  handiwork  and  "Saw  that  it  was 
good." 

And  the  radiance  of  His  Smile 
Lingers  o'er  each  shining  mile 

Of  the  green  and  lustrous  valley,  and  the  redwoods  clois 
tered  aisle, 

17 


Over  marshland  and  o'er   meadow,   over  mountain   and 
o'er  wood. 

But  Her  children  claim  their  Birthright ;  they  have  written 

large  their  claim 

In  the  Sybil's  book  of  Destiny,  escaping  from  the  flame. 
By  our  claim  of  Birth  and  Blood, 
By  Her  claim  of  Motherhood, 
We   shall   claim   our   Right  inherent,   long   withheld   and 

long  withstood, 

To    the    deep    sky-filling  thunder  of  Her  great,  historic 
Name. 

A  whisper  on  the  Belmont  hills ;  the  Redwood  plains  were 

stirred ; 
The  Woodside  mountains  bent  their  crests  of  lofty  pride, 

and  heard; 

And  a  sudden  splendour  broke 
O'er  the  San  Mateo  oak, 
And  it  tossed  its  arms  on  high  to  grasp  a  rainbow,  as  She 

spoke, 
With  the  Promise  of  Her  Coming,  long  desired  and  long 

deferred. 

By  the  shadow  of  Her  Midnight,  writ  aforetime  on  Her 

brow, 

By  the  radiance  of  Her  Morning,  shining  full  upon  Her 
riow, 

By  red  dripping  Spear  and  Rod, 
By  the  Pathway  that  He  trod 

18 


When  the  hills  were  rent  asunder  by  the  dying  cry  of 

God, 
She  hath  pledged  Her  Soul  on  high  in  recognition  of  Her 

vow. 

By  all  things  that  man  holds  holy,  She  shall  surely  come 

to  them, 

In  Her  robes  of  Royal  purple,  with  Her  Regal  diadem, 
And  the  haughty  light  that  lies 
In  the  depths  of  those  dark  eyes 
Shall  grow  mellow  as  the  moonlight  in  the  dusk  of  tropic 

skies, 

As  Her  children  kneel  about  Her,  clutching  at  Her  gar 
ment's  hem. 

Majestically  moving  from  the  reestablished  throne, 
Her  feet  efface  the  painted  lie  upon  the  boundary  stone; 
For  Her  Faith  and  Love  abide 
To  Her  Own,  that  scattered  wide, 

See  Her  myriad  watch  fires  flicker  from  the  quiet  country 
side. 

SHE  COMES  ACROSS  THE  ALIEN  FIELDS  TO  CLAIM   AGAIN   HER 
OWN. 


19 


THE  HALLS   OF  FANCY 

These  are  the  lofty  and  far-reaching  halls 

Whose  light  and  airy  walls 

Are  built  of  stuff  of  dreams ; 

With  ever-changing,  iridescent  gleams 

Of  sunlight  and  star  shining  and  moonbeams ; 

And  lit  from  that  far  height 

That  lies  beyond  the  tides  of  day  and  night. 

These  are  the  charmed  pinnacles  that  rise, 

Piercing  enchanted  skies; 

Up  from  the  glamour  thrown 

By  seven-hued  rainbows  of  the  corner  stone ; 

Up  through  the  purple  silences,  star  sown, 

To  the  far  Central  Throne 

Of  Him,  Who  Reigns  All  Knowing  and  Unknown. 

Put  off  thy  shoes  from  thee  and  veil  thy  face ; 

This  is  His  Holies  Place. 

Let  but  the  Levite  stand 

With  reverent  face,  and  touch  with  hallowed  hand 

The  Ark  that  bears  the  Covenant  of  the  land ; 

That  seals  our  right  to  rise 

Above  the  brute,  with  seraphs  of  the  skies. 

Oh,  thou,  my  soul,  awake  to  a  new  birth. 

Put  off  thy  robes  of  earth. 

Stand  naked  and  unshod 

Within  these  Holy  Halls,  where  late  hath  trod 


20 


The  Visible  Presence  of  the  Soul  of  God. 

Cleanse  thou  thyself,  that  pure, 

Thou  mayst  contain  the  Infinite,  yet  endure. 

Build  thyself  shining  ladders  of  Heartbreak, 

My  Soul,  whereby  to  take 

Yon  heaven-distant  star, 

That  beckons  thee  with  smiling  face  from  far, 

To  the  High  Halls  where  the  Immortals  are. 

Let  yon  remotest  sun 

Weave  thee  a  path  to  the  Ineffable  One. 


21 


THE  WEAVER 

The  Weaver,  weaving  in  a  silent  room 

The  iridescent  web  of  Fancy's  loom, 

That  opaline  and  changing  Cloth  of  Gold, 

For  his  soul's  ransom,  with  his  soul's  sweat  told; 

With  reverent  awe,  with  foaming  of  the  lips 

He  drew  his  dream  forms  from  the  black  eclipse 

Of  primal  voids.     He  saw  his  work  unroll, 

Compelled  and  guided  by  the  Oversoul. 

He  fed  the  loom  thread  after  shining  thread, 

His  flying  hand  a  Hand  diviner  led. 

Exulting  colors,  ecstasies  of  light 

Reft  from  some  God  on  his  forbidden  height; 

All  lights,  all  shadows  and  all  melodies; 

All  discords  trumpeted  by  winds  and  seas. 

All  evanescent  odors  that  are  met 

Within  the  faded  chaplet  of  Regret; 

A  devil's  prayer,  that  blistered  where  it  fell 

And  hell  smut  drifted  on  the  smoke  of  hell ; 

A  drop  of  sunlight  from  a  dewy  lawn, 

Spilled  from  the  golden  flagon  of  the  dawn; 

A  saint's  desire,  more  white  than  shining  wool ; 

The  Scarlet  Soul  of  the  Sin  Beautiful ; 

Flotsam  and  jetsam  drifted  to  his  hand, 

Wreckage  of  all  men's  souls,  from  no  man's  land. 

And  good  or  ill,  his  fingers  wove  it  in. 

The  God  compelled;  it  ever  must  have  been. 

He  leaned  his  soul  to  listen;  not  to  miss 

God's  whisper,  speaking  in  the  serpent's  hiss; 


22 


He  heard  His  trumpet  from  a  far  off  height 

When  the  red  lightning  stabbed  the  heart  of  night 

His  soul's  ear  heard;  he  trembled  and  rejoiced 

In  varying  tones  of  God,  the  Many  Voiced. 

A  deeper  silence  on  the  silence  falls; 

A  deeper  shadow  on  the  shadowed  walls; 

God  and  the  Weaver  and  a  silent  loom, 

And  shadows  dripping  blackness  on  the  gloom 

Above  his  finished  work;  and  over  all 

God's  Shadow  thrown  above  him  as  a  pall, 

Starlit,  sun  flaming,  with  its  glooms  unfurled 

Between  him  and  the  shadow  of  the  world. 

And  his  work  blossoms  purple,  gold  and  red, 

And  the  white  face  above  it  of  the  dead. 

The  Weaver's  web  is  woven;  let  him  keep 

Between  the  eve  and  dawn  his  tryst  with  sleep. 


23 


THE   PAGAN'S    PLEA 

Thou  Knowest !    Oh,  Thou  Knowest !   Thou ! 
Jehovah,  Buddha,  Jove,  or  Lord, 
To  Whom  all  men  with  one  accord, 

At  diverse  altars  pay  their  vow, 

Thou  Knowest!    Oh,  Thou  sad-browed  Christ, 
Or  be  Thou  God,  or  be  Thou  Man, 
How  I  with  bleeding  feet  outran 

Thy  Faith,  which  not  my  soul  sufficed. 

My  soul,  attuned  to  Arcadie, 

Drank  discord  in  the  city  street; 

I  dreamed  of  Latmos — and  my  feet 
Were  bloody  upon  Calvary. 

I,  also  bruised  with  bloody  rods, 
Turned  unto  These,  Incarnate  Joy. 
Gods  with  the  light  heart  of  a  boy, 

And  Beauty  in  the  guise  of  Gods. 


24 


THE   DENIED   CHRIST 

Oh,  Face  Divinely  Human,  grave  and  tender, 

Deep-lined  whereon  I  trace 
Sad  thoughts,  that  mar  the  else  ineffable  splendour 

We  might  not  dare  to  face; 

Why  comest  Thou  at  night,  when  dews  of  healing 

Should  visit  my  sad  eyes, 
Thy  robes  ungirt,  half  hiding,  half  revealing 

The  wounds  of  sacrifice. 

Lord,  Lord,  I  see  the  beauty  of  Thy  Being, 

And  of  Thy  Words  that  shine 
Star-like  across  dim  ages;  but  the  seeing 

May  never  make  me  Thine. 

The  solemn,  sacred  service  of  Thy  Preaching 

Lies  patent  to  mine  eyes. 
Yet  what  my  soul  might  gather  of  Thy  Teaching 

My  Pagan  heart  denies. 

I,  also,  from  a  Calvary  exceeding,- 

I,  scourged  with  bloody  rods, 
Turn  from  Thy  Passion  and  Thy  Brother  Pleading 

To  my  remembered  Gods. 

For  I  am  Greek  of  Star-Crowned  Hellas,  lying 
An  emerald,  sun  kissed 


25 


Beneath  her  skies  of  sapphire,  vainly  vying 
With  seas  of  amethyst. 

Still  must  I  hear  in  western  woodlands  ringing 

The  Syrinx  pipes  of  Pan; 
Striking  old  chords  of  recollection,  bringing 

My  vales  Arcadian. 

Still  must  some  Pagan  Almond  Flower  of  Beauty 

To  which  my  heart  shall  cling 
Bloom  from  the  barren  Aaron's  rod  of  duty 

In  perfect  blossoming. 


26 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

God,  the  Giver,  wove  the  gracious  Cloth  of  old. 
Maculate,  perchance,  and  sullied,  but  His  Royal  Cloth  of 
Gold. 

And  He  wove  it  to  the  flashing 

Of  His  lightnings,  and  the  crashing 
Of  His  thunders,  splitting  open  the  impenetrable  gloom. 

His  Divine  Foreordination 

Lit  the  path  of  tribe  and  nation 

Flashing  from  His  flying  shuttles  and  the  thunder  of  His 
loom. 

God  hath  willed  it  from  the  primal  dawn,  and  still 
All  the  ages  sweat  their  blood  and  tears  in  furtherance 
of  His  Will. 

He  hath  Willed  that  heights  supernal 

Rise  above  the  plains;  eternal, 

Lest  the  Star  of  Splendour  pale  its  fires,  and  Glory  pass 
away; 

That  the  soul  of  man  might  quicken ; 

Lest  the  soul  of  man  should  sicken 
In  the  stagnant  lower  levels  and  a  monotone  of  gray. 

God  hath  given !    Woe  to  him  whose  hands  profane 

The  Inviolable  Cloth  of  Gold  Where  His  Anointed  reign. 
For  His  Cloth  of  Gold  before  them, 
Flung  about  them,  rising  o'er  them, 

Is  the  canopy  of  Princes  and  a  carpet  to  His  Feet. 
Where  He  comes  with  light  unfailing, 
Comes  with  comfort  and  availing, 

Where  the  King  of  Kings  above  them  and  His  earthly 
Regents  meet. 


VIRGINIA'S  GIFT 

Two !   Two  of  her  sons  and  yet  one  had  sufficed ; 

O'er  topping  the  height  of  the  nation's  behest; 
Two  first  born  and  noblest.     Bear  witness,  oh,  Christ, 

Of  the  sons  that  she  suckled  in  pride  at  her  breast 
She  gives  us  the  best. 

Lo,  these  are  her  jewels;  the  Virgin  of  Wars 
Hath  set  them  above  in  the  heavens  for  a  sign, 

For  a  Promise  and  Portent  of  Peace  midst  the  stars, 
Of  hatred  and  discord  grown  dimmer,  that  shine 
From  south  of  the  Line. 

Let  the  virgins  go  forth  with  the  lamps  in  their  hand; 

With  the  gifts  of  the  times  let  the  wise  men  adore. 
As  a  God  in  her  giving,  she  proffers  the  land 

The  Star  Shining  Most  of  the  opulent  More 
Of  sons  that  she  bore. 


28 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  LINCOLN 

Full  reverently,  and  with  contrite  heart, 

Of  that  great  Whole,  we  come  to  claim  a  part. 

The  land's  Great  Tribune,  faithful  to  his  trust, 

All  Merciful,  All  Patient,  and  All  Just. 

Time,  the  great  alchemist,  hath  thrown  within 

His  crucible,  some  portion  of  our  sin. 

His  solvent,  the  all  comprehending  touch 

Of  Human  in  This  Man,  availeth  much 

To  melt  the  baser  metals,  hate  and  scorn, 

Corroding  envy  and  a  pride  outworn; 

Touched  with  a  Christ-like  tenderness,  behold, 

He  gives  them  back  to  us  refined  gold. 

Which  gold  of  Love,  perchance,  may  serve  to  pay 

Our  tithes,  too  long  withheld  from  him,  today. 

Content  yourself,  not  lightly  do  we  change; 

And  changed  to  him,  yet  we  do  not  estrange 

Ourselves  from  that  we  are,  and  shall  remain, 

Though  all  the  future  plead  to  us  in  vain. 

The  high  and  haughty  humor  of  the  blood 

We  drew  from  Mother  England,  stands  us  good. 

In  rock-ribbed  stubbornness,  we  hold  our  place 

Within  the  old  traditions  of  our  race. 

Our  fathers  served  the  King  across  the  sea; 

We,  for  the  same  Lost  Cause,  drew  swords  with  Lee. 

We  stand,  and  still  shall  stand  as  we  have  stood, 

The  heirs  and  guardians  of  the  Ancient  Blood. 

The  purple  shadows  of  our  past  are  thrown 

About  his  light,  and  still  the  light  is  shown, 

29 


The  clearer  for  the  shadows,  we  must  yield 
To  him,  the  last  fruits  of  an  outworn  field. 
The  half-unwilling  homage,  wrenched  apart 
And  crowned,  above  the  passions  of  our  heart. 
We  may  not  follow  in  his  steps  of  light; 
But  we  may  watch  and  worship  in  the  night. 
I  think  that  the  All  Human  in  This  Man, 
Lest  that  the  All  Divine  should  mar  His  plan 
With  a  too  high  perfection,  over  bright, 
Too  fiercely  blinding  for  our  mortal  sight, 
Still  draws  him  to  us,  nearer  and  more  near. 
More  perfect,  were  too  perfect,  and  less  dear. 
We  love  him  for  himself,  and  for  the  flaw 
That  sets  his  steps  with  ours  in  Nature's  law. 
Flawed  with  the  old  familiar  flaw  from  birth, 
The  fond,  sweet  Birthmark  of  our  Mother  Earth. 
South  of  the  South,  within  our  veins  there  runs 
Mixed  with  our  blood,  the  blood  of  Southern  suns. 
We  give  not  lightly;  giving,  give  our  whole, 
The  undivided  all  of  heart  and  soul. 
Now,  in  his  full-leafed  coronet  of  praise 
We  come  to  lay,  among  the  palms  and  bays, 
Our  Southern  Olive,  the  most  dearest  trust, 
That  time  may  lay  above  his  sacred  dust. 
Late  won,  our  Love  goes  with  it,  and  if  late, 
He,  who  hath  won  Eternity,  may  wait. 


30 


THE  ANGRY  RED  STAR 

TO    AMBROSE    BIERCE. 

Up  from  the  West  I  saw  it  rise; 

I  watched  and  worshipped  from  afar; 

Not  Peace  on  earth  proclaimed  the  Star, 
The  Angry  Red  Star  of  the  skies. 

In  darkened  skies  it  set  its  rule. 

They  fled  before  the  fiery  sign ; 

It  pierced  with  influence  malign 
The  triple  armor  of  the  fool. 

War,  war,  a  just  and  righteous  war! 
Its  flaming  lances  in  and  out 
Flashed  their  ensanguined  lights  about 

The  altars  where  the  false  priests  are; 


Whose  shrines  the  ancient  shrines  supplant ; 
Who  kneeling,  bind  about  their  face 
Phylacteries  of  the  Commonplace, 

Wherewith  to  seek  the  Great  God  Cant. 


That  cold,  inclement  breast  of  Art 
I  touched,  and  found  it  but  the  sheath 
To  hide  in  deeper  depths  beneath 

Thy  warmly  red  and  human  heart; 


31 


Which  bade  a  doubting  heart  maintain 

Its  birthright  of  celestial  fire; 

And  bade  an  ancient  height  aspire 
Above  the  levels  of  the  plain. 

Through  all  my  paths  of  unsucces's, 
In  the  black  dungeons  of  my  night, 
Thy  Words  were  still  the  dawning  light 

Escaping  from  the  dark's  duress  ; 

That  shining  on  my  height  unwon 
A  beacon  fire  of  Promise  burned, 
To  which  I  held,  to  which  I  turned, 

As  Parsees  to  the  risen  sun. 

Oh,  if  my  soul  may  hope  to  rise 

In  some  new  light  of  some  new  dawn, 
Round  after  broken  round  upon 

My  Jacob's  ladder  to  the  skies, 

I,  though  upon  its  topmost  round, 

Will  pause  and  give  my  thanks  at  length 
To  thy  strong  soul  which  gave  me  strength, 

And  set  my  feet  above  the  ground. 

I  thank  the  Gods,  who  gave  me  grace 
To  link  my  lesser  name  with  thine; 
With  thy  reflected  light  to  shine, 

Although  but  for  a  moment's  space. 


32 


THE   CRY   OF  THE  HUMAN 

We  were  near  to  each  other  a  moment,  and  nearer  we 

were  that  I  saw 
The  touch  of  the  Human  upon  you,  and  loved  you  for 

stain  and  for  flaw. 
We  were  dear  to  each  other  a  moment,  but  now  you  have 

grown  from  me  far, 
And  bright  as  the  lance  of  the  Sun  God,  and  clean  as  the 

light  of  a  star. 
The  sound  of  your  name  has  grown  holy ;  I  falter  it  under 

my  breath. 
Can   you   hearken   that,  cry   of   the   Human,    flung   back 

through  the  gateways  of  death? 
Though  I  add  to  my  stature  a  cubit,  though  I  clasp  to  the 

breast  for  my  own 
The  belt  of  yon  hunter  in  heaven,  could  I  reach  you  to 

where  you  have  grown? 
Though  out  of  the  depths  I  approach  you,  and  draw  down 

your  soul  to  my  touch, 
Can  I  bid  it  be  you  as  I  knew  you,  and  hold  it  and  love  it 

as  such? 
Shall  I  seek  you,  who  held  you  the  dearest,  where  the 

lilies  blow  cold  and  white 

On  margins  of  motionless  waters,  in  the  perfect  and  pas 
sionless  light, 
Where  the  hymns  rise  up  heavy  like  incense,  and  the  harps 

and  the  viols  are  strung? 
I  want  you  again  as  I  knew  you,  with  the  earth  stain  on 

heart  and  on  tongue. 

33 


I  want  you  again  as  I  saw  you,  when  booted  and  spurred 

and  astride, 
You  sat  with  your  knee  on  the  pommel,  a-flush  from  the 

heat  of  the  ride. 

You  rode  through  the  gates  of  the  morning,  and  a  breeze 

of  the  dawn,  as  you  came, 
Breathed  on  life's  smoldering  embers,  and  stirred  the  wan 

ashes  to  flame. 
You    came    as    the    breaking    of    daylight,    through    the 

branches  of  blossoming  trees, 
And  the  desert  of  life  became  vocal  with  the  voices  of 

birds  and  of  bees. 
And  the  hands  of  the  spring,  in  their  weaving,  had  woven 

you  garments  of  joy, 
And  your  wine  of  the  summer  ran  over  from  the  jeweled 

gold  cup  of  the  boy. 
Oh,  stranger,  in  Strangerland  yonder,  new  god,  with  the 

old  feet  of  clay, 
Were  dearer  the  roses  that  faded,  and  the  loves  that  went 

out  with  the  day? 

Do  you  weary  of  harp  and  of  viol  and  the  droning  of  pas 
sionless  tunes, 
And  the  heavy,  barbaric   splendour,   through   the  heavy, 

unchanging  noons? 
Tis  noon  in  the  courtyards  of  Heaven,  unbegot  of  the 

kiss  of  the  sun, 
And  the  souls  pass  up  without  shadow,  for  the  noon  and 

the  night  are  as  one. 
There  is  light  in  the  ultimate  heavens,  fathomless,  blinding 

and  white. 

34 


Oh,,  boy  that  I  loved  in  the  foretime,  engulfed  in  abysses 

of  light, 
Do  you  shrink  from  the  pitiless  splendour,  and  clutch  at 

the  jewel  lit  bars, 
And  sigh  your  soul  into  the  distance  to  the  best  beloved 

star  of  the  stars? 


35 


'THESE   CHRISTS    THAT    DIE   UPON    THE 
BARRICADES"— 1871 

In  the  days  when  the  brimming  cup  of  guilt 

That  France  replenished,  ran  o'er  and  spilt 

Turbulent  torrents  of  bloody  waves, 

Bearing  her  sons  to  nameless  graves, 

And  the  insolent  ghost  of  Ninety-Three 

Walked  in  the  open  for  all  to  see, 

In  the  faithless  city  strange  things  were  done, 

That  man  might  flee  from  and  devils  shun. 

And  Paris  arose,  half  God,  half  beast, 

And  the  beast  sprang  up,  the  God  decreased; 

And  she  went  forth  in  the  night  and  stood 

With  the  jungle  taint  hot  in  her  blood; 

With  the  frantic  eyes  of  one  who  knew 

Ninety-Three  and  Bartholomew; 

With  soul  of  a  devil,  flawed  and  scarred, 

Diamond  bright  and  diamond  hard; 

And  the  Leash  of  God  but  scarce  repressed 

The  tiger's  heart  in  her  human  breast. 

And  the  devil  beat  his  loud  rappel 

For  recruits  from  San  Antoine — and  hell. 

And  the  grim  old  saint  threw  off  his  gray, 

And  stood  like  a  galliard  gallant,  gay 

In  insolent  colour,  vibrantly  red, 

Like  a  Gabriel's  trumpet  over  the  dead. 

And  the  soul  of  the  devil  flashed  hell  warm 

And  hell  red  over  the  hell  black  storm, 

And  answered  the  hell  shriek  of  the  cry, 


36 


"On  to  the  Barricades  !     Kill  and  Die  !" 
Oh,  Christ  of  Cavalry  !     Ghost  of  God  ! 
Red  with  the  wound  of  nail  and  rod, 
Was  it  for  This  Thy  Sweat  and  Tears 
Swept  like  a  river  adown  the  years, 
Gulfed  and  lost  in  the  black  abyss 
And  crimson  flood  of  a  day  like  this. 
Yet  if  demons,  devil  released  from  hell, 
They  fought  like  Gods;  like  Gods  they  fell; 
And  the  Splendid  Madness  of  their  cause 
Flashed  up  star  high  above  human  laws; 
Guilt  with  a  crown  of  light,  star  sown, 
Murder  Majestic  upon  a  throne. 
Pushed  from  their  foothold  inch  by  inch, 
They  fell  in  their  tracks,  but  did  not  flinch ; 
Did  not  flinch  when  the  cannon  came 
Vomiting  death  from  throats  aflame; 
They  died  like  heroes,  and  knew  not  why; 
And  who  shall  question  man's  right  to  die? 
And  ever  above,  their  flags  flashed  red, 
A  hell  flame  menace  o'er  quick  and  dead. 
And  the  men  who  threw  the  dice  with  God 
Stood  in  the  last  red  ditch,  red  shod, 
With  red  hands  raised  for  the  final  throw 
Of  loaded  dice  that  must  turn  up  low. 
Their  soul's  strength  propped  the  broken  wall 
Of  the  Barricade,  crumbling  to  its  fall; 
They  stood  like  a  rock,  and  felt  it  reel, 
Swept  by  a  tidal  wave  of  steel ; 
Stood  in  a  phalanx,  strong  but  thin 


37 


When  the  wall  broke  down,  the  storm  rushed  in; 

Breasts  full  front  to  the  flood  that  came 

A  spray  of  steel  on  a  wave  of  flame, 

They  sank  submerged,  but  did  not  yield 

To  the  torrent  sweeping  across  the  field. 

And  then,  as  a  ray  of  light  divides 

The  sullen  torment  of  tortured  tides, 

Came  from  their  midst  a  boy,  who  stood 

In  that  horror  haunted  welter  of  blood 

As  breath  and  dew  of  the  Dawn  that  fell 

Like  balm  on  that  gaping  wound  of  hell. 

Hand  to  his  brow  he  stood  at  salute, 

All  blood  bespattered,  a  fair  young  shoot 

Of  the  Tree  of  Treason,  from  bitter  root. 

A  gypsy  blossoming  wildly  sweet, 

Grown  in  the  garden  of  slum  and  street, 

And  a  dozen  years  on  his  brow  grew  scant, 

And  a  trebled  measure  of  woe  and  want. 

And  he  claimed,  with  the  light  heart  of  his  race, 

From  the  hands  of  Death  a  moment's  grace; 

A  reef  of  Time,  wherefrom  to  see 

The  ocean  of  All  Eternity; 

Leave  to  go  to  his  home  near  by, 

To  go  with  Life,  to  return  to  die. 

And  the  leader  smiled  from  eyes  heart-warm 

At  the  boyish  face  and  slender  form; 

He  was  well  content  that  the  boy  should  draw 

The  one  white  lot  from  the  outraged  law; 

And  with  tender  gruffness  he  bade  him  on, 

"Go  to  the  devil  and  keep  thee  gone." 


'38 


And  the  boy's  eyes  flashed  and  his  cheek  flushed  red 

In  his  wounded  pride,  as  he  turned  and  said: 

"Pardon,  my  captain,  you  jest;  but  I 

Will  surely  return  in  time  to  die." 

And  grimly  and  gladly  the  captain  drew 

The  lots  of  Fate  for  the  captured  few; 

And  Death  laughed  loud  as  he  held  the  sack 

The  lots  were  drawn  from,  for  all  were  black. 

For  these  were  the  lots  of  Fate  for  all, 

To  stand  together  against  a  wall, 

To  stand  for  a  time — for  all  time  to  fall; 

Riddled  with  shot,  and  thrown  to  drench 

With  the  blood  of  traitors,  a  shallow  trench. 

Brutal,  blood-stained,  braggart,  but  Brave ! 

They  carried  their  valour  unto  the  grave, 

And  flung  a  jest  with  their  dying  breath 

To  ruffle  the  majesty  of  Death. 

And  suddenly  rose  above  the  noise 

In  silver  treble,  a  boyish  voice, 

Thin  and  clear  and  distinct  and  sweet 

Over  the  riot  upon  the  street; 

The  cry  of  Honour  from  heights  of  Pride, 

The  cry  of  Humanity,  Deified. 

"A  moment,  my  captain,  'tis  only  I, 

Back  again  just  in  time  to  die." 

And  the  tumult  ceased,  and  the  silence  fell 

Of  God's  Truce  over  that  seething  hell; 

And  captor  and  captive,  with  dim  eyes 

Bent  to  a  vision  from  o'er  the  skies, 

And  over  life's  flaw  beheld  it  pass, 


39 


Walls  of  jasper  and  seas  of  glass, 

Palms  of  Victory,  Lilies  worn 

On  Mary's  Bosom  when  Christ  was  born, 

What  man  loves  best,  and  holds  most  high 

"Were  met  in  the  boy  returned  to  die; 

Glowing,  triumphant,  and  out  of  breath, 

The  Royal  Guest  at  this  feast  of  Death. 

As  a  poet  priest,  or  a  painter  paints 

The  glorified  images  of  saints, 

Where  the  sodden  gray  of  life  is  told 

In  glowing  colours  and  words  of  gold, 

So  the  barefoot  boy  grew  up  August 

As  a  King's  Son,  guarding  his  Gallant  Trust; 

Prince,  above  Prince  of  an  ancient  line, 

Royal  in  tatters — by  Right  Divine; 

Clothed  in  his  Spirit  Radiance, 

Highest  and  Noblest,  First  Born  of  France. 

So  he  stood  with  the  men  against  the  wall, 

Brave  as  a  man,  and  half  as  tall; 

A  thief,  peradventure,  but  if  a  thief, 

One  who  was  brave  beyond  belief ; 

If  a  thief,  a  thief  who  titanic  grew 

On  heights  of  the  spirit  into  the  blue ; 

If  a  thief,  a  thief  to  whom  Honour  came 

With  the  God's  Gift  hidden  in  smoke  and  flame. 

And  Death  for  a  moment  stayed  his  hand 

Ere  he  waved  them  forth  to  the  unknown  land ; 

And  stood  still,  tranced  for  a  moment's  space, 

Blinded  by  Splendour  flung  in  his  face; 

Never  before  such  light  was  drawn 


40 


From  the  founts  of  God  beyond  the  dawn 

To  fall  on  the  ways  of  San  Antoine. 

And  never  before  a  boy  hath  trod 

Such  Royal  Purple  through  Death  to  God. 

And  the  savage  voice  of  Duty  spoke, 

And  the  rifles  answered  through  flame  and  smoke. 

Or  bronze,  or  brass,  or  marble  bleeds 

With  words  red  dripping  from  gallant  deeds, 

Deeds  of  heroes  with  sword  and  lance, 

Heroes  of  History  and  Romance 

Who  fought  for  Honour,  and  fell  for  France. 

And  the  brass  might  laugh  in  exultant  joy, 

Writ  with  the  God's  deed  of  the  Boy, 

And  the  marble  soften  like  wax  to  claim 

The  indelible  impress  of  his  name. 

Now,  the  leash  of  Order,  tighter  drawn, 

Strangles  the  soul  of  San  Antoine; 

And  the  tree  with  madness  at  its  root, 

That  bore  for  a  day  such  golden  fruit, 

Withered  and  dead  and  lopped  away 

Lets  in  the  bare,  bleak  light  of  day. 

And  the  Barricades  no  more  are  built 

By  Radiant  Madness  and  Splendid  Guilt. 

But  in  San  Antoine  is  Holy  Ground, 

And  here  comes  Honour,  by  G.lory  crowned, 

Where  he  threw  his  boy's  all  into  the  strife, 

His  tattered  and  trampled  Toy  of  Life. 

Ah,  little  Hero,  with  soul  of  flame, 

Where  is  the  daybreak  of  thy  Name 

To  be  largely  written  above  by  Fame; 


41 


To  light  the  pathway  of  sun  and  star, 

To  light  our  sordid  earth  from  afar; 

The  Torch  of  God,  with  its  light  intense, 

Overshining  Magnificence. 

And  the  world  forgets  it;  but  I  suppose 

SOME  ONE,  Somewhere,  Remembering  Knows. 


42 


MARIE  ANTOINETTE 

Hastens    Night   o'er    star-sown    summits,    but    her    pallid 

brows  are  drawn 
Tense  in  lines  of  frightened  anguish;  and  her  feet  tread 

hard  upon 
Feet  reluctant,  halt  and  trembling,  the  unwilling  feet  of 

Dawn. 

In  that  hour  of  august  anguish  when  a  God  hung  on  the 

tree 
All  the  cosmic  forces  trembled;  so  they  tremble  now  to 

see 
The  accursed  hour  in  birth  pangs  of  this  woman's  Calvary. 


Where  is  God?     Oh,  where  is  He  Who  set  this  woman's 

feet  upon 
Cloth  of  purple,  golden  blazoned,  and  the  footsteps  of  a 

throne, 
That  the  splendour  of  her  form  might  faintly  figure  forth 

His  own. 

Where  is  God  and  where  His  Anger,  that  apocalyptic  ire 
Sweeping  o'er  His  fields  of  harvest,  when  the  wings  of 

Mercy  tire; 
While  the  guilty  stubble  shrivels  in  its  seven-times-heated 

fire? 

France  has  fiefed  enfranchised  Freedom,  and  the  sovereign 
people  claim 

43 


Royal  blood  to  drench  the  altar  they  have  builded  in  her 

name. 
Name  of  God  invoked  by  devils,  may  it  scorch  them  with 

its  flame ! 

Hark!  the  jackals  of  the  sewers  hasten  onward  to  their 

prey; 
Faggots  from  the  devil's  burning,  spurned  from  hell,  and 

gone  astray; 
And  the  harlot,  drunk  with  blood,  shall  drink  of  dearer 

blood  today. 

Nothing  doubt  their  brutish  souls  were  filled  with  anger 

and  surprise 
At  the  haughty  pride  that  slumbered   in  the  depths  of 

those  sad  eyes, 
When  the  victim  went  a  victor  to  the  place  of  sacrifice. 

For  the  costly  vase  is  shattered,  and  the  sacred  blood  is 

spilt; 
And  the  last  black  stone  is  set  upon  the  house  their  hands 

have  built; 
And  the  crimson  knot  is  woven  in  the  altar  cloth  of  Guilt. 

Open  wide,  ye  gates  of  darkness,  where  the  damned  in  tor 
ments  dwell 

Shut  to  Hope  with  triple  portals,  when  the  son  of  Morning 
fell, 

That  all  hell  rise  up  to  meet  them,  when  their  souls  go 
down  to  hell. 


44 


THE   SONG  OF  RUPERT'S   MEN 

There  is  blood  on  the  grass, 

And  a  flame  on  the  wind 
That  leaps  as  we  pass 

And  follows  behind; 
There's  a  ragged  red  spot 

On  faces  grown  white, 
And  eyes  that  see  not 

Though  they  stare  at  the  night. 
Let  the  Puritans  wince 

At  the  gifts  that  we  bring, 
Who  follow  the  Prince 

For  God  and  the  King. 

From  the  mount  where  He  trod 

When  the  Tables  came  down, 
The  finger  of  God 

Points  the  rights  of  the  Crown. 
Now  God  with  Our  Cause 

For  Our  Cause  is  His  Own, 
For  the  King  and  the  Laws, 

For  the  Church  and  the  Throne. 
Then  out  with  our  swords ! 

Let  the  universe  ring 
And  reecho  our  words 

For  God  and  the  King. 

And  here's  to  Another 
With  glasses  brimmed  high, 


45 


The  friend  and  the  brother 

Who  gives  us  to  die. 
If  Life  shall  betray 

With  a  sycophant's  breath, 
Then  huzza  for  the  day 

Of  Honour  and  Death. 
Come  he  soon,  come  he  late, 

We  care  not,  who  fling 
Our  defiance  to  fate 

For  God  and  the  King! 


46 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   ALFRED   TENNYSON 

THIS   DEDICATION    OF    THE    "DIVINE    MESSAGE/' 

An  Unfinished  Poem. 

Strong  Soul,  that  human  and  divine, 

With  radiance  ineffable 

Controlled  my  being  with  a  spell, 
And  bade  a  lesser  light  to  shine. 

In  one  whose  grief  was  overmuch 

Bound  to  base  uses.     One  who  saw 

Of  his  own  soul  the  blot,  the  flaw, 
Yet  felt  upon  his  brow  the  touch, 

The  seal  of  some  diviner  lips, 
The  fiery  and  the  cleansing  pain, 
That  draws  the  franchised  soul  again 

From  the  black  caverns  of  eclipse. 

i 

Yea,  felt  his  soul  a  harp,  whose  strings 

Some  God  with  careless  fingers  swept. 

Who  half  revealing,  wholly  kept 
His  secret  of  eternal  things. 

And  in  strange  moods  of  thought  unfurled, 

Past  all  the  subtlest  laws  of  art, 

Felt  Universal  Nature's  heart 
Throb  through  the  pulses  of  the  world. 

****** 
47 


Forgive  me,  who  have  dared  to  lift 
My  faltering  voice  in  praise  of  Thee. 
For  that  it  is,  and  can  not  be, 

Forgive  the  giver  and  the  gift. 

Forgive  me,  that  I  strive  to  sound 
The  strings  which  late  your  hands  let  fall. 
Forgive  me,  that  I  tread  withal, 

Though  softly,  on  this  holy  ground. 

For  not  with  careless  feet  I  stepped 
Across  the  grave,  where  long  ago 
Went  forth  the  strains  of  love  and  woe 

That  make  the  name  of  Hallam  wept. 

But  with  full  reverence  I  trod, 
As  one  who  at  the  altar  kneels 
Awe-stricken,  while  the  priest  reveals 

The  Body  and  the  Blood  of  God. 


Here  hast  thou  set  the  farthest  bound 
Of  Sorrow's  wide  and  waste  domains; 
Past  which  her  writ  no  more  obtains 

Where  Silent,  purple  robed  and  crowned, 

She  broods  above  the  throngs  that  meet 
— From  all  the  patient  lands  that  cry 
To  the  inexorable  sky — 

To  lay  their  homage  at  her  feet. 


48 


Within  her  sacred  temple's  porch, 
They  come  to  pray  or  weep  awhile. 
Or  wait  his  coming  with  a  smile, 

Who  comes  with  his  inverted  torch. 

But  few  within  her  holies'  place 
Shall  stand  to  draw  her  veil  away; 
Or  see  the  fiery  splendours  play, 

Or  the  compassion  of  her  face. 

Ah  well  for  them,  their  brows  forbear 
The  guerdon  of  her  glorious  gain; 
Her  fiery  signet  seal  of  pain, 

Her  clinging  chaplet  of  despair. 

'Tis  well  for  them,  they  may  not  know 
That  anguish,  human  and  divine, 
Which  set,  an  altar  in  a  shrine, 

Thy  apotheosis  of  woe. 


Dear  Master,  for  whose  reverend  brow 
We  wrought  our  wreath  of  palms  or  bays, 
To  whom  we  brought  such  meed  of  praise, 

As  merely  mortals  might  avow. 

They  were,  who  watchers  of  the  night 
Beheld  the  Star  rise  in  the  east. 
They  were,  who  bidden  to  the  feast, 

Went  forth  with  lamps  trimmed  and  alight. 


49 


They  were,  whose  hands  with  gladness  told, 
To  thee  a  shining  rosary, 
Of  gifts  befitting  them  and  thee, 

Their  myrrh  and  frankincense  and  gold. 

But  woe  to  me,  whose  soul  too  late 
Hath  owned  the  influence  of  the  star, 
And  brought  my  laggards  gifts  from  far 

To  lay  beside  the  folded  gate. 


Yet  should  I  stand  on  English  ground, 
Methinks  I  scarce  should  think  it  strange 
To  see  thee  standing,  without  change, 

Within  thy  star-encircled  round. 

So  hast  thou  stood  within  my  sight, 
What  time  the  patient  stars  came  out, 
And  kept  long  watch  and  ward  about 

The  sacred  temples  of  the  night. 

Nay,  didst  thou  stand  before  my  face 
Tonight  in  spirit,  with  thy  soul 
Purged  of  the  body's  gross  control, 

And  fetterless  of  Time  and  Space, 

Impalpable  unto  my  touch, 

But  all  the  human  shining  through, 
The  All  Divine  that  veiled  my  view, 

I  would  not  wonder  overmuch. 


50 


Nay,  scarce  to  see  thy  face  beside 
A  Face  all  tender  and  all  grave, 
His  Face,  in  Whom  no  part  I  have, 

The  Face  of  Him  I  have  denied. 

For  so  thy  being's  strength  compelled 
My  weakness.     All  my  first  and  best, 
By  thy  diviner  soul  possessed, 

By  thy  diviner  soul  upheld, 

Grew  from  me  farther  and  more  far, 
Grew  from  me  clearer  and  more  clear, 
Grew  to  thee  nearer  and  more  near, 

The  glow  worm  shining  to  the  star. 

Dear  are  the  claims  of  blood  and  birth; 
I  claim  thee  by  a  dearer  claim, 
From  thee  my  soul  derives  the  flame, 

Which  surely  is  not  all  of  earth. 

And  if  in  these  poor  verses  be, 

Mixed  with  much  dross,  some  thought  divine, 
The  light  with  which  it  shines  is  thine, 

'Tis  thine  and  hath  its  source  from  thee. 


Nor  thy  deserts,  nor  my  desires, 

Have  set  my  little  best  so  low, 

Which  should  from  higher  heights  bestow, 
The  light  bestowed  of  heavenly  fires. 


51 


For  I  have  burst  the  golden  bars, 
The  portals  of  the  dawn,  and  pressed, 
Like  him  of  old,  unto  my  breast 

The  death-keen  lances  of  the  stars. 

Might  I  a  moment's  space  compel 
The  God,  whose  fiery  pulses  roll 
In  stormy  tides  about  my  soul, 

Half  audible,  half  visible, 

Methinks  my  soul  is  not  so  base 

That  thou  wouldst  scorn  the  song  I  bring, 

Nor  pass,  an  unregarded  thing, 
My  leaf  amidst  your  palms  and  bays. 

Of  what  avail,  of  what  avail, 

From  out  the  night  no  answers  come. 
The  voice  of  all  the  Gods  is  dumb; 

Old  signs  of  hope  and  promise  fail. 

For  lapped  among  the  dews  and  balms 
In  lotos-eating  bliss  they  lie, 
Or  drunk  with  slumber's  wine  deny 

My  song  their  laurel  and  their  palms. 


Now  thrice  the  English  May  hath  strewn 
The  hawthorn's  snow  upon  the  breeze, 
And  thrice  in  England  over  seas 

The  poppy's  golden  cup  hath  blown. 


52 


And  thrice  in  Britain,  east  or  west, 
Or  old,  or  new,  or  where  the  day 
Steals  from  the  night's  embrace  away, 

Or  where  the  Sun  God  veils  his  crest, 

The  holy  bells  of  Christmas  rang 

The  angels'  anthem  back  again; 

Their  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men 
Since  he  hath  gone  from  us  who  sang; 

The  song  that  all  our  soul  sufficed, 
The  human  song,  the  song  divine, 
Drawn  from  deep  founts  of  light  that  shine 

With  splendour  of  the  Risen  Christ. 

He  sang  of  love;  and  lo,  the  breast 

Of  lovers,  trembling  in  the  bliss 

Of  glorious  insufficiencies, 
A  higher,  holier  love  confessed. 

He  sang  of  woe;  and  we  who  trod 
In  darkened  ways,  knelt  to  avow 
The  august  shadow  on  our  brow, 

The  shadow  of  the  Soul  of  God. 

He  sang  of  God;  the  conscious  sky 

Grew  quickened;  and  the  light  that  not 
Of  suns'  and  earths'  embrace  was  got, 

The  visible  soul  of  the  Most  High 


53 


Went  forth  from  its  abiding  place. 

The  stars  paled  in  that  radiant  dawn, 

And  Mercy  drew  her  veil  upon 
Th'  ineffable  light  we  might  not  face. 

Alas  for  us,  our  souls  are  less 

That  part  of  the  harmonious  whole, 
The  soul  compelling  Over  Soul 

Hath  left  its  temples  tenantless. 

White  sheets  of  moonlight  drifting  by 
The  sails  of  seas  that  lie  beyond. 
The  Light  of  England,  waned  and  wanned, 

That  some  new  star  might  shine  on  high. 


Dust  unto  dust.    There  comes  a  guest 
A  lordly  guest,  who  gives  to  keep 
The  sacred  burden  of  his  sleep, 

To  his  own  England's  gentle  breast. 

Sleep  thou  thy  England's  soil  beneath; 
And  Thou,  whose  generous  bosom  bore, 
Thou  high  and  haughty  heritor 

Of  this  divinest  trust  of  Death; 

Oh,  Britain,  round  whose  brows  are  met 
The  triple  crowns;  the  trinity 
Of  three  in  one,  and  one  of  three, 

Thy  hundred  warrior  princes  set. 


54 


Oh,  England,  England,  his  and  mine ! 
Oh  thou  whose  footsteps  not  in  vain 
Divide  the  vexed  and  vexing  main, 

Majestic  Mother  of  a  line 

In  patience  and  in  strength  who  pressed 
The  steps  of  Freedom  mounting  higher, 
And  fanned  to  flame  the  flickering  fire 

Of  sacred  fury,  in  her  breast ! 

Thy  gracious  claim  of  Motherhood; 
Our  love  that  as  a  rock  abides 
The  shifting  of  the  sands  and  tides, 

The  righteous  claim  of  Saxon  blood, 

All  cry  for  peace.     Oh,  not  in  vain, 
Though  alien  hands  would  rend  apart 
The  god-laid  burthen  on  our  heart, 

Our  heritage  of  love  and  pain. 

To  Saxon  hearts  where  e'er  they  be, 
Who  heart  to  heart,  and  soul  to  soul, 
Would  keep  our  Saxon  empire  whole, 

Peace  and  good  will  across  the  sea. 


Stand  thou  with  us,  as  we  with  thee, 
So  shall  we  standing  side  by  side, 
The  realm  of  either  world  divide, 

From  pole  to  pole,  from  sea  to  sea. 


55 


Oh,  splendid  dream !     A  God's  desire, 

Drawn  from  deep  draughts  of  heavenly  springs, 

And  soaring  on  exalted  wings, 
Might  set  its  radiant  bounds  no  higher. 

An  ancient  right  that  we  who  trod 
The  vintage  of  His  wrath  from  yore, 
Who  armed  with  strength  and  patience  bore 

The  delegated  Will  of  God. 

While  still  a  festering  ill  prolongs 
Its  rule,  and  bankrupt  justice  fails, 
Should  throw  our  swords  into  the  scales 

That  balance  nations'  rights  and  wrongs. 

The  factor  of  divine  events, 
'Tis  ours  to  loose  in  peace  or  war, 
The  crimson  tangled  knots  that  mar 

The  web  of  His  Divine  Intents. 

Oh,  might  we  bind  the  scattered  rays 

Of  Britain's  glory  into  one; 

Her  world  wide  lands,  which  not  the  sun 
Forsakes  in  all  his  circling  ways; 

Then  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men, 
Were  not  an  idle  shibboleth, 
Blown  through  the  dusty  lips  of  death, 

And  drenched  with  Abel's  blood  again. 


56 


Nor  Justice  then  a  prince's  fool, 
Nor  Truth  a  servile  lackey  kept; 
But  prince  and  people  should  accept 

God's  Truth  and  Justice  in  our  rule. 

Then  should  our  will  to  judgment  bring 
A  princely  war  lord,  grown  o'er  bold, 
Or  bid  a  fretful  people  hold 

The  tryst  of  ages  with  their  King. 

Then  on  our  all  protecting  shield 
Where  frowned  on  gules  the  Gorgon's  head, 
Should  Truth  and  Justice  rule  instead, 

With  Mercy  on  an  argent  field. 

So  should  our  gracious  influence  draw 
The  quickened  nations  in  our  track, 
And  each  to  each  should  answer  back 

In  common  speech  and  righteous  law. 


Our  lands  are  many,  star  on  star, 
We  called  them  from  the  purple  shades, 
Through  desert  paths  and  forest  glades, 

We  set  our  ancient  boundaries  far. 

We  gave  our  banners  to  the  breeze, 
The  seas  divided  and  we  passed; 
Our  Flag  from  many  a  haughty  mast 

Flung  crimson  lights  on  unknown  seas. 


57 


We  built  in  patience  to  endure. 
Against  the  years'  corroding  length 
We  set  the  pillars  of  our  strength, 

As  pillars  of  the  earth  are  sure. 

Oh,  shall  we  shrink  in  craven  fears 
At  the  long  shadows  lengthening  fast, 
Of  this  our  greatness  grown  so  vast, 

And  waxing  with  th'  increasing  years ! 

And  we,  shall  we  whose  promise  seemed 
The  Covenant  of  God  with  man, 
Whose  splendid  purpose  still  outran 

The  all  that  priest  or  poet  dreamed; 

Who  led  the  foremost  van  that  led 
The  armies  of  the  risen  day, 
Turn  from  the  gates  of  dawn  away 

To  walk  with  ghouls  among  the  dead? 

And  bid  the  evil  seeds  that  fell 

From  hands  forgotten — ashes — dust, 
Spring  up  a  crop  of  hate  and  lust 

To  glut  the  hungry  maws  of  hell? 

Then  are  we  lost.     The  moment  nears. 
The  serpent's  subtle  soul  hath  wound 
Its  coils  about  the  sky,  and  bound 

The  kindly  influence  of  the  spheres. 


58 


Fof  this  were  madness.    This  to  tell 
The  litany  of  devils  taught. 
Oh,  this  were  madness,  hell  begot, 

And  spurned  from  out  the  gates  of  hell. 

That  gives  to  alien  hands  to  reap 
The  gain  of  our  ancestral  field. 
That  each  may  win,  let  either  yield, 

And  either  give,  that  both  may  keep. 


Scourged  with  the  angry  Master's  rod 
Be  they  who  throng  the  venal  mart 
And  in  His  temple  rend  apart 

The  veritable  PEACE  OF  GOD. 

May  ceaseless  travail  still  bestead 
Their  path,  and  of  the  mingled  flood 
Of  sweat  upon  their  brow,  may  blood 

Commingle  with  their  bitter  bread. 

May  still  the  pillars  of  Thy  wrath, 

The  bla.ckening  cloud  of  smoke  by  day, 
The  nightly  fire's  consuming  ray, 

With  flame  and  blackness  hedge  their  path. 

And  weltering  in  a  guilty  flood 

Of  dreams,  that  watch  with  them  through  night, 
May  wild-eyed  murder  meet  their  sight, 

Bespattered  with  a  kinsman's  blood. 


59 


And  mingling  ever  with  the  groans 
And  shrieks  of  battle,  may  they  hear 
Throb  through  the  ringing  in  their  ear, 

With  shrill,  insistent  monotones, 

A  spirit  whisper,  keen  and  thin, 

Stabbed  to  the  sense  of  heart  and  brain, 
And  crying  ever,  "Thou  art  Cain, 

And  none  shall  slay  thee  for  thy  sin." 

Set  Thou  their  bed  of  death  where  none 
Shall  close  the  faded  orbs  of  sight, 
But  stabbed  with  fiery  pangs  of  light, 

And  brazen  lances  of  the  sun. 

Wrench  Thou  the  guilty  soul  away. 
That  the  death  tainted  body  draw 
The  jackals,  striving  tooth  and  claw 

With  vultures,  for  th'  accursed  clay. 

Oh,  Thou,  to  Whom  our  prayers  were  poured 
In  every  age,  to  Whom  was  spilt 
The  Guiltless  Blood,  to  purge  our  guilt, 

To  Thee,  Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord, 

To  Thee  we  cry.     Oh,  hear  us,  Thou, 
Let  not  th'  Unpardonable  Sin 
Sprung  from  the  gates  of  hell  within 

Set  her  red  mark  upon  our  brow. 


60 


Nor  madness  stretching  forth  her  hands, 
And  groping  for  the  light  through  dark, 
Set  hands  upon  the  hallowed  ark 

That  bears  the  Covenant  of  our  lands. 

May  rather  chaos  come  again, 

And  death  and  darkness  through  the  spheres, 

Engulf  their  ancient  barriers, 
The  little  lives  of  Gods  and  men. 


61 


GOD   SAVE  THE  KING 

TO     MOTHER     ENGLAND. 

Mother  of  many  men, 
Monarch  in  many  lands, 
Mistress  on  many  seas, 
Come  now  Thy  sons  again 
Proffering  to  Thy  hands 
Mightier  gifts  than  these. 

These  be  but  leaves  of  rhyme, 
Fragile  and  faded  leaves, 

Formless  and  incomplete. 
Never  the  hand  of  Time 
Binding  them  into  sheaves 
Lays  them  before  Thy  feet. 

Comes  with  my  less,  a  More ; 
Comes  with  my  least,  a  Most ; 

Comes  with  my  part,  a  Whole. 
Comes  to  Thine  ancient  shore 
Gifts  from  a  far-off  coast, 
Gifts  from  a  Nation's  Soul. 

Grief,  with  Thy  Grief  to  rise; 
Tears,  with  Thy  Tears  to  fall; 

Hope,  with  Thy  Hope  to  spring 
Into  the  mourning  skies 
Over  the  dead  King's  pall, 

Crying,  GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 


62 


Hark !     From  an  ancient  height, 
Jubilant,  clear  and  high, 

Shrilly  the  trumpets  ring 
Ring  for  an  Ancient  Right, 
With  an  old  battle  cry 

Crying,  GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 


63 


THE  KING'S  TRYST 

The  Tryst  of  Widowed  Lands 

The  Wider  Britain  keeps. 
With  faltering  steps  She  stands 

On  Her  exulting  steeps; 
She  flings  Her  mourning  bands 

Across  Her  subject  deeps. 

The  August  Mother  calls 
Her  children  o'er  the  tide; 

High  are  the  ocean  walls, 
The  ocean  walls  are  wide, 

But  yet,  what  e'er  befalls 
They  hasten  to  Her  side. 

At  Britain's  high  behest 

From  North  and  South  they  come; 
They  come  from  East  and  West 

Swift  foot  across  the  foam; 
They  gather  to  Her  breast 

When  Britain  calls  them  Home. 

They  come  with  flying  feet, 
And  eyes  with  tears  grown  dim ; 

From  East  and  West  they  meet 
Upon  the  world's  far  rim; 

They  pass  with  footsteps  fleet 
To  keep  their  tryst  with  Him. 


64 


Gifts  for  the  Royal  Dead 
From  all  the  lands  that  lie 

Where  Britain's  Zone  of  Red 
Is  bounded  by  the  sky. 

Peace  that  may  still  bestead, 
And  Love  that  shall  not  die. 

Peace!     Peace  be  with  the  King. 

Let  jangling  faction  cease. 
Above  His  ashes  fling 

The  Flower  of  Civic  Peace. 
So  from  His  grave  shall  spring 

The  Star  of  Christ's  Increase. 


65 


THE    MOTHER    CALL 

Today  a  sudden  splendour  falls 

On  castle,  cot  and  dome. 
The  little  Island  Empire  calls 

Her  wandering  children  home. 

The  voice  swept  through  the  northern  wold, 
The  southern  vales  were  stirred. 

Her  thousand  echoing  hills  retold 
The  splendour  and  the  word. 

The  touch,  divinely  tender,  filled 

The  awed,  expectant  land, 
And  alien  heartstrings  throbbed  and  thrilled 

Swept  by  the  Master  hand. 

The  peaceful  garden  islands  know 

The  crowded  camp's  alarms, 
The  trumpets'  call,  the  watchfires'  glow, 

The  clashing  of  the  arms. 

But  high,  and  clear  and  sweet,   above 

The  rattling  of  the  guns, 
With  Mother  faith,  with  Mother  love, 

The  Mother  calls  her  sons. 

"The  ocean  walls  are  strong  and  wide, 

And  strong  and  wide  the  sea, 
And  thrice  a  thousand  leagues  divide 

My  absent  sons  from  me. 


66 


"Come,  Children  of  the  Wandering  Feet, 
Where  e'er  your  footsteps  roam. 

From  alien  field,  from  stranger  street, 
Your  Mother  calls  ye  home. 

"I  call  ye  from  a  stranger's  land, 

To  send  ye  forth  again. 
I  give  ye  with  a  Mother's  hand 

To  exile  and  to  pain. 

"I  set  for  ye  a  banquet  board 
Where  graves  are  dug  beneath. 

Whereat  from  sanguine  cups  is  poured 
The  wild,  sweet  wine  of  death." 


The  vintage  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts 
Grows  ripe  on  hill  and  plain. 

Reap  thou  his  multitude  of  ghosts, 
His  hecatombs  of  slain. 

Go  forth,  to  make  thy  purpose  good, 

Land  of  the  Rising  Sun. 
Of  alien  faith,  of  alien  blood, 

Our  will  with  thine  is  one. 

For  valour,  faith  and  mercy  move 

Beneath  the  tawny  skin. 
And  kindred  thoughts  and  actions  prove 

How  close  we  are  akin. 


67 


Young  Britain  of  the  farther  east, 
Thy  golden  spurs  but  won; 

Set  thee  triumphant  o'er  thy  Feast 
Thy  Risen  Rising  Sun. 


SONNET 

TO     CROMWELL. 

Cromwell,  the  deep  damnation  of  your  name 

Outblackens  Satan's  in  his  subject  land, 

Where  doubly  damned  above  himself  you  stand 
On  inaccessible  mountain  peaks  of  shame 
Crowned  with  all  final  infamies  of  fame, 

Upon  your  brow  the  ineffaceable  brand 

Of  Cain  thrice  trebled,  by  an  Angry  Hand 
Scorched  in  immortal  agonies  of  flame. 
Methinks  my  Lord  of  Darkness  shall  not  love 

Your  overlordly  shadow  near  him  thrown. 
Will  you  not  call  your  parliament  to  prove, 

Oh  Prince  of  Regicides,  his  right  your  own, 
And  reign  above  your  saints  as  once  above 

Crowned,  Damned  and  Hated,  on  your  usurped  throne? 

68 


ELIZABETH,  THE  QUEEN 

I,  bastard  born  of  that  new  royal  blood 

That  God  hath  set  a  space  upon  the  throne 

Of  Norman  William;  he,  himself,  like  me, 

A  bastard,  born  of  the  most  basest  blood 

That  ever  smirched  the  scutcheon  of  a  King 

With  the  bar-sinister  unspeakable. 

A  tanner's  daughter  she,  Arlotta  hight 

That  so  her  name  might  match  the  what  she  was. 

So  doth  that  hell-smut  blotch  the  blazoned  shield 

Of  this  Leander  of  the  narrow  seas, 

Bearing  his  fame  and  infamy  to  clip 

His  England,  all  unwilling,  to  his  breast. 

I,  too,  would  woo  and  win,  and  winning,  wear 

My  England  on  my  bosom.     Gifts  I  bring 

Perchance  not  all  unworthy  her  and  me. 

I  wis  my  soul,  man-statured,  might  aspire 

To  tread  the  circles  of  the  titan  souls 

Of  the  great  Edwards,  heaping  crown  on  crown 

To  scale  the  summit  of  a  God's  desire. 

Mine  is  the  people's  voice,  impetuous 

To  crown  a  King  or  crucify  a  God. 

All  rights  are  mine,  save  that  Diviner  Right 

Through  which  Kings  hold  their  fiefs  from  God,  and  reign. 

Oh,  this  may  not  be  mine !     I  shall  not  hear 

The  rustle  of  the  Dove  within  the  Tree 

With  healing  for  the  nations  in  its  leaves. 

Oh,  this  may  not  be  mine !     I  shall  not  see 

The  Shadow  of  the  Soul  of  God  that  shines 


69 


Outshining  lightnings,  over  and  beyond 

My  doubtful  right,  that  shines  upon  the  brow 

Of  Wrong  Undoubted;  like  the  gems  of  paste 

That  light  the  tangles  of  a  strumpet's  hair. 

Yet  who  should  wear  the  crown  ?     Not  she  of  Scots  ! 

My  younger  cousin,  with  her  Elder  Right; 

That  White  Rose,  shining  from  a  thousand  thorns 

That  prick  me  to  the  bosom  where  a  heart 

Should  throb  in  the  mere  woman.     I,  the  Queen, 

Th'  Incarnate  Soul  of  England,  wear  no  heart 

To  trip  the  nimble  leaping  of  my  brain. 

Myself  am  My  Own  Right,  wherein  I  see 

The  utmost  present  and  the  ultimate  most 

Of  good  that  is,  and  good  that  is  to  be 

To  all  this  realm  of  England.     Oh,  My  Land, 

Oh,  My  Dear  England,  Mother,  Spouse,  and  Child, 

So  help  me  the  Most  High,  Who  hears  my  vow, 

Myself  am  consecrate  and  set  apart 

A  vestal  virgin  to  the  sacred  fire 

That  burns  upon  the  altar  of  my  heart ! 

My  strength  shall  gird  thy  weakness  with  a  sword ; 

My  love  shall  light  a  pathway  to  thy  feet; 

The  purple  of  my  robes  shall  cover  thee 

To  the  last  verge  of  thy  extremest  isle 

That  stands  a  Maid  of  Honor  to  the  Dawn, 

Or  clasps  the  dying  Sun  God  to  her  breast. 

Lo,  I  am  I,  the  Queen,  and  with  this  ring, 

The  shining  symbol  of  Eternity, 

I  wed  thee  on  this  night  and  in  this  place 

Where  Death  hath  snapped  the  weaker  links  apart 


70 


That  bound  my  sister  to  thee  for  her  day. 

She  hath  loved  much ;  pray  God  that  He  forgive 

Her  love  that  sowed  the  seeds  of  hate  afar 

On  wanton  winds,  the  which  ourselves  shall  reap 

That  follow  after.     She  hath  made,  in  truth, 

Our  England  lackey  in  the  halls  of  Spain, 

Serf  to  a  tyrant  master.     By  God's  Death, 

We  shall  amend  the  master  and  the  man 

To  our  complete  contentment.     We  shall  light 

A  thousand  candles,  burning  at  the  shrine 

Of  Saint  Elizabeth,  the  English  Queen, 

Shall  light  our  path  across  with-holden  seas 

To  Western  Gardens,  and  their  Fruit  of  Gold. 

The  night  steals  on  apace,  the  heavy  night, 

For  she  hath  watched  and  waited.    The  wan  night 

Her  face  is  pallid  from  a  stress  of  awe; 

For  she  hath  seen  strange  shadows  rise  and  fall, 

And  a  great  Shape  that  entered  in  the  doors, 

And  lordly  strode  through  all  these  lordly  halls 

Of  England's  Kings.     The  courtiers  doffed  their  caps 

And  louted  low,  as  though  the  Queen  did  pass 

To  that  Majestic  Presence,  heralded 

By  his  two  white-faced  heralds,  Pain  and  Fear. 

A  Shadow  bearing  a  Great  Gift  of  Light 

To  her  who  doffed  the  crown  and  passed  with  it 

Out  from  the  radiance  of  the  palace  lights, 

The  purple  pomps,  the  gilded  gauds  of  time, 

Into  the  gray  and  melancholy  wastes, 

To  reign,  perhaps  to  serve,  in  those  far  lands 

That  lie  beyond  the  sun's  light  and  the  stars. 


71 


Oh,  wert  thou  Tudor?    Wert  Plantagenet? 
Wert  of  our  House  of  Atreus,  drenched  with  blood 
Of  brother  brother  slain,  who  liest  white 
Grown  very  meek  and  very  patient  now; 
Aye,  patient  to  my  presence,  who  wert  wont 
To  love  not  well  my  crescent  shadow  thrown 
Between  thee  and  thine  own  decrescent  light. 
But  this  is  in  the  night,  and  of  the  night. 
And  I  am  of  the  Dawn  and  Fiefed  of  Dawn 
With  a  Great  Fief.     I  look  in  mine  own  soul 
As  in  a  mirror,  and  therein  I  see 
Nan  Boleyn's  base-born  daughter  and  The  Queen 
Who  shall  leave  England  greater  than  she  found. 


72 


THE    GOLDEN    ROSE 

TO  H.  R.  H.  THE  PRINCESS  HENRY  OF  BATTENBERG. 

White  Marvel  of  the  Rose  of  God, 

The  Rose  of  Certain  Peace.     It  blew 

As  Aaron's  almond  blossom  grew 
In  beauty  from  the  barren  rod. 

From  death  the  miracle  of  birth ; 

The  Hand  that  strikes  us  down,  uplifts; 

The  Giver  gives  His  Radiant  Gifts 
To  these,  His  Chosen  of  the  earth. 

And  thou  hast  sought  and  found  it  far 

Where  tropic  jungles  circle  black 

In  serpent  coils  about  the  track 
Of  God's  and  Britain's  righteous  war. 

'Tis  well  that  thou  whose  soul  hath  known 

A  little  while,  no  more  should  know 

The  fretful  ages'  flux  and  flow 
That  sap  the  pillars  of  a  throne. 

Though  Faction  flap  her  fiery  wings 
"    Where  loyal  Faith  no  more  abides, 

Though  Treason's  bloody  hand  divides 
The  purple  raiment  of  her  Kings, 


73 


Thou  wilt  not  know.     Thy  all  complete, 
The  leaf,  the  blossom  and  the  gold 
Of  harvest  sheaves  at  noonday  told 

Untimely,  fall  at  Britain's  feet. 

And  she  whose  feet  are  steadfast  in 
The  paths  of  empire,  she  shall  keep 
A  moment  tryst  with  Death,  to  weep 

The  Warrior  Prince  that  might  have  been. 


High  Princess  !    Princess  yesterday ; 
Today  a  Widow,  come  too  late 
To  kneel  beside  the  folded  gate 

Whence  none  may  roll  the  stone  away. 

Lo!     Thou  art  Royal;  dust  indeed, 
But  Royal  Dust;  the  laboring  earth 
In  stronger  travail  gave  thee  birth ; 

And  Higher  Light  informed  thy  need. 

For  thou  art  of  the  stately  stem 
That  lifts  its  lofty  branches  high ; 
The  earth,  their  heritage;  the  sky, 

A  royal  canopy  to  them. 

Now  art  thou  near  to  us;  the  Touch, 
The  Christ-like  Touch  upon  thy  brow 
Absolves  the  subjects'  straightened  vow 

To  one  who  loves  and  sorrows  much. 


74 


And  we,  whose  father's  fathers  bled 
For  thine,  may  bring  our  offerings 
Of  sorrow  to  the  hall  of  Kings, 

And  mourn  with  thee  beside  thy  dead. 

Oh,  we  were  brutish,  misbegot, 

Nor  in  our  veins  the  loyal  flood 

Of  unforgetting  Saxon  blood 
That  makes  us  one,  had  we  forgot 

The  Good  Queen's  gracious  deed,  that  gave 
— The  Signet  Seal  of  Christ's  Increase 
The  Certain  Knot  of  Love  and  Peace — 

The  wreath  for  Martyred  Garfield's  grave. 

Take,  Madame,  then  from  o'er  the  sea 
These  frail  and  faded  leaves  of  rhymes; 
Though  they  were  trebled  twenty  times 

Alike  unworthy  Thine  and  Thee. 

Yet  haply  may  they  serve  to  tell, 
If  blown  by  ocean  winds  they  fall 
Within  thy  ancient  castle's  wall, 

That  Saxon  love  remembers  well. 

God's  Grace  go  with  thee  to  ensure 
The  splendid  sorrows  of  thy  lot, 
His  Patience  and  His  Strength.  "Break  not, 

For  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure." 


75 


TO   RUDYARD   KIPLING 

With  a  battle  axe  for  pen 

Flashed  above  the  heads  of  men, 
With  thy  soul's  poetic  passion  to  a  Berserk  fury  growing, 

Sir,  thy  words  are  rough  hewn  Facts, 

Stamping  on  the  yielding  wax 
Of  our  memory,  thy  rubric  tangled  in  its  crimson  glowing. 

Nothing  doubt  our  envious  bays 
Fall  before  thee  on  thy  ways, 

We,  man  milliners  of  Art,  who  prink  and  prank  and  prune 
and  polish 

At  our  fragile  flowers  of  rhyme, 
Sown  upon  the  shores  of  Time, 

That  tomorrow's  sun  shall  wither,  and  tomorrow's  waves 
demolish. 

Yet  my  soul  may  stand  with  thine 
On  the  heights  we  deem  divine, 

And,  grown  up  to  equal  stature,  may  reach  out  and  call 
thee  Brother; 

Equal  by  the  gracious  laws 
Of  the  kindred  blood  that  draws 
Thee  and  me  in  adoration  to  the  Great  Majestic  Mother. 

• 

We're  for  England !   Thou  and  I ; 
We're  for  England!   Throned 'high; 

We're  for  England !    In  Her  ancient  robes  and  with  Her 
antique  Honour; 

76 


We're  for  England  !   At  Her  hearth ; 
We're  for  England  !    Round  the  earth  ; 
We're  for  England !    With   Her  Triple  Crowns  and  All 
Her  Crowns  upon  Her. 

Here's  to  England  !    Glasses  brimmed. 
Here's  to  England !   With  eyes  dimmed 
By  the  stormy  waves  that  break  against  the  heights  of  our 
emotion. 

Here's  to  England  !    Brother,  drink. 
Standing  each  upon  the  brink 

Farther   East   and   farthest   Westward   of   Her   tributary 
ocean. 


77 


A  DREAM  OF  ITALY 

Peace  on  the  earth,  and  on  the  waters  Peace; 

In  yonder  cloudless  heavens  above  us,  Peace ; 

And  Peace  with  him  who  slumbers  at  my  side, 

The  boy  companion  of  my  lonely  way 

To  this  untaken  fortress  of  the  hills 

That  guards  Balboa's  ocean.     Lo,  he  lies 

In  that  dim  border  and  debatable  land 

That  owns  the  equal  sway  of  those  great  lords 

Whom  men  call  Life  and  Death.     Above  him  now 

The  shadow  of  their  cognizance  is  thrown 

Or  roses  white,  or  roses  red,  that  pale 

Or  flush  above  the  olive  of  his  face. 

So  doth  he  lie,  a  dream  within  a  dream, 

A  charmed  prince  in  an  enchanted  land, 

From  which  myself  might  draw  him  to  my  side 

— The  devious  ways  by  which  he  went  made  straight 

For  his  returning  feet — did  I  but  place 

My  hand  upon  his  brow,  become  august 

With  the  compelling  dignities  of  Sleep. 

And  he  would  wake  and  smile,  and  smiling  speak 

In  those  soft  sibilant  accents  that  I  love ; 

In  hearing  which  my  soul  perchance  would  see 

The  God-blown  Bubble  of  the  Lordly  Dome 

That  floats  above  the  Tiber,  o'er  the  dust 

That  once  was  Rome— and  still  is  Italy. 

I  am  not  alien  to  this  land  that  lies 

A  wedge  of  emerald  thrust  between  her  walls 

Of  sapphire  seas.     Myself  am  native  here; 

78 


I  leap  the  Rubicon  of  alien  blood 

Too  shallow  to  divide  myself  from  Her, 

My  Soul  and  Spirit  Mother.     Oh,  Beloved! 

Oh,  Well  Beloved !     Oh,  Best  Beloved  Thou ! 

What  shall  I  bring  Thee  from  my  human  love 

That  wanders  lost  upon  the  soaring  heights 

Of  a  God's  adoration?     Naught  bvjt  these? 

Naught  but  these  flawed  futilities  of  Art? 

This  rainbow's  ladder,  broken  at  the  base 

In  seven-hued  toppled  steps  I  may  not  climb. 

Naught  but  these  airy  capitals  that  fell 

From  broken  columns  of  my  hall  of  dreams 

Wherein  my  soul  may  never  hope  to  dwell. 

Naught  but  these  minor  melodies  of  song 

That  shall  not  reach  thine  ears  of  royalty 

Attuned  to  statelier  measures.     Naught  but  these? 

To  lay  beside  the  gifts  the  Magi  bring 

From  all  the  wider  east  where  God  is  born 

Incarnate  in  each  new-born  Poet's  breast. 


HENRY  V  OF  FRANCE 

King  upon  whose  sacred  brow 
Ne'er  the  sacred  oil  was  spilt, 
In  High  Houses  God  hath  built 
Over  Prince  and  people,  thou 
Standest  God  Anointed  now. 

King  !     A  nation's  cornerstone 
That  the  builders  threw  aside, 
Crowning  guilty  Regicide; 

Claimest  thou  on  high  thine  own, 

Reigning  on  a  spirit  throne. 

Thou,  too,  on  thy  Lupercal, 

With  a  more  than  Gesar's  frown 
Flung  aside  the  people's  crown, 

Unsubservient  to  their  call 

For  a  crowned  and  sceptred  thrall. 

Not  the  franchise  of  the  base, 
Not  the  scarlet  suffrage  drawn 
From  the  sin  of  San  Antoine 
Soiled  the  glory  and  the  grace 
Of  the  last  flower  of  thy  race. 

Clothe  thee  in  Thy  Right  anew; 

Crushed  by  Time- — and  Royal  still; 

Treason  trampled — but  God's  Will 
And  thy  Royal  White  that  grew 
Over  rebel  red  and  blue. 


80 


Standing  in  the  sight  of  God 
Render  back  His  Gift  August, 
Stainless  held  by  thee  in  trust; 
Steps  unto  a  throne  untrod 
But  thy  feet  by  Honour  shod. 

Bear  to  Henry,  Great  and  Good, 
Thou,  too,  Henry  Good  and  Great, 
Held  above  the  reach  of  Fate 
Thy  unswerving  rectitude, 
And  thy  stainless  Kinglihood. 

King!     Rejected  and  denied; 

King  !     Rejecting  and  denying ; 

King  !     Defeated  and  defying, 
Casting  a  base  crown  aside, 
Placing  Honour  above  pride. 

Unto  thee  we  bring  our  vows, 
Pledging  ancient  faith  anew; 
God  is  with  His  Chosen  Few, 
We  who  come  to  bend  our  brows 
To  the  King  Crowned  in  God's  House. 


81 


THE   GHOST   OF   ITYS 

Hark!    'Tis  the  nightingale. 

What  floods  of  wailing, 
What  storms  of  grief  assail 

The  heavens,  scaling 
A  God's  despair,  or  fail 

Sadder  in  failing. 

Seest  thou  incarnate  song 
And  soul  of  grieving, 

That  horror  haunted  wrong 
Beyond  retrieving. 

Shall  not  the  ages  long 
Soothe  thy  bereaving? 

Seest  thou  in  this  fair  wood 
That  hears  thy  singing, 

The  Thracian  halls  that  stood 
With  terrors  ringing, 

And  to  thy  solitude 
The  Furies  winging? 

Still,  in  thy  forest  green, 

Lies  Itys  dying. 
Still  o'er  the  charmed  scene 

His  ghost  is  flying. 
Still,  rose  and  thee  between, 

His  soul  is  sighing. 

82 


A  HEALTH  TO  THE  KING 

OF    PORTUGAL. 

A  health  to  the  King, 

A  health  to  the  Boy, 
Though  boyish  he  fling 

His  Crown  as  a  toy, 
With  his  sceptre  and  ring 

On  the  bosom  of  Joy. 

Shall  no  blossom  of  May, 
And  no  breath  of  the  Spring, 

And  no  dawn  of  the  Day, 
And  no  flash  of  Love's  wing 

Be  flung  on  the  way 
Of  the  Boy — grown  a  King? 

For  the  King  is  but  man 
That  Her  bosom  that  bore 

Shall  resume  in  a  span; 
But  the  Kingship  is  more, 

And  the  Top  of  God's  plan 
From  His  days  of  Before. 

Go  forth  in  God's  Might, 
For  His  trumpets  are  blown, 

And  the  land  is  alight 

With  the  fires  He  hath  sown. 

In  His  Might  and  Thy  Right 
Enter  in  to  Thine  Own. 

83 


Crush  down  with  thy  heel 
The  traitors  who  trod 

With  the  flashing  of  steel 
And  feet  bloody  shod, 

O'er  the  faithful  who  kneel 
At  the  altars  of  God. 

A  health  to  the  King, 
The  King  by  God's  Grace. 

May  His  Providence  bring 
The  King  to  his  Place, 

New  splendour  to  fling 
On  the  past  of  his  race. 


84 


FRANCIS  i  AT  PA  VIA 

All  day  upon  that  fatal  day,  the  stroke  of  sword  and  lance 
Fell   thickest,   where,   through   smoke   and   flame,   flamed, 

ever  in  advance, 
The  lilies  on  his  breast  before  the  lily  flag  of  France. 

His  arms  above  the  arms  of  France,  upon  his  breast  were 

crossed. 
The  victor's  banners  flaunting  free,  above  the  King  were 

tossed, 
The  King,  who  left  that  fatal  field,  with  all  but  honor  lost. 

Came   one   who   stood  before   the   King,   reluctantly   who 

came, 

Of  equal  lofty  majesty,  his  cognizance  the  same. 
And  King's  blood  struggled  in  his  cheek,  against  a  flush 

of  shame. 

De  Bourbon  bowed  his  haughty  head;  he  faltered  where 

he  stood, 

Before  that  flower  of  chivalry,  that  crown  of  Kinglihood; 
That  star  upon  the  brow  of  France  and  kinsman  of  his 

blood. 

The  King  and  traitor  face  to  face !     A  moment  as  of  old. 
Distilled    from    poisoned   depths   of   hate,   the   monarch's 

words  were  told. 
De  Bourbon  drank  the  bitter  draught  and  shivered  with  its 

cold. 

85 


"Fair  fall  thee,   gentle   cousin,   as  thou   fairly   com'st  to 

bring 

Upon  the  field  where  fortune  fails,  the  double  offering 
Of  love  unto  thy  kinsman's  heart,  and  homage  to  thy  King. 

"Nay,  cousin,  lift  that  lofty  head  that  bends  so  low  to  me. 
Thy  haughty  heart  and  victor  hand  absolve  thy  subject 

knee. 
Enfiefed  by  fickle  fortune  thou,  the  King  must  bend  to 

thee." 

He  turned  in  scorn  and  gave  his  sword  to  one  obscure, 

unknown, 
Who  on  his  bended  knee  received  and  gave  the  King  his 

own. 
To  whom  the  King,  with  Kingly  grace,  and  unforbidding 

tone, 

"Now,  by  the  crown  I  lose  this  day,  and  by  my  father's 

land, 
When    traitors    kneel,    it    well    becomes    thy    honesty    to 

stand." 
He  bent  with  princely  courtesy  and  raised  him  by  the  hand. 


86 


AT  THE  TOURNAMENT 

Comes  now  My  Lord  of  Death,  his  pennon  flying; 

Sans  cognizance 
Upon  his  sable  armour;  loud  defying 

With  sword  and  lance 
My  Lord  of  Life,  with  enmity  undying, 

And  a  1'outrance. 

Comes  forth  My  Lord  of  Life,  his  armour  gleaming, 

But  over  light; 
In  all  the  galliard  grace  of  youth,  beseeming 

A  gallant  knight. 
The  legend  of  his  house  above  him  streaming, 

"Mine  Ancient  Right." 

They  meet,  as  meet  two  rival  bolts  of  thunder 

In  a  black  sky. 
As  the  red  flash  that  tears  the  skies  asunder, 

Their  swords  flash  high. 
They  fall.     Alas!     My  Lord  of  Life  falls  under. 

So  fair  to  die. 

Tis  o'er.     The  final  coup  de  grace  is  given. 

Let  the  bells  toll; 
Let  lighted  candles  show  him  way  to  heaven, 

While  priests  make  dole; 
His  guilty  soul  hath  passed  away  unshriven. 

God  rest  his  soul ! 


87 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

The  autumn  is  dead, 

And  the  year  lies  a-dying, 
Where  yellow  and  red 

The  sere  leaves  are  flying. 

They  cover  him  up  as  a  pall,  while  the  winds  of  the  winter 
are  sighing. 

They  have  made  him  a  bed ; 

They  have  pranked  it  with  holly ; 
With  berries  of  red 

To  slay  Melancholy. 

Ye  fools !    She  will  rise  from  her  grave,  though  you  bury 
her  deep  in  your  folly. 

He  came  to  the  crown 

In  the  midst  of  our  cheering; 
To  death  he  goes  down 

With  our  wailing  or  jeering; 

The   Boy   King  we   set  on  the  throne  of  his  sires  with 
caresses  endearing. 

A  health  to  the  King 

Who  comes  on  the  morrow, 
From  flagons  that  fling 

Defiance  to  sorrow. 

The   wine   of  the   present   is   ours,   and   the   wine  of  the 
future  we  borrow. 


A  health  to  the  King 

From  glasses  of  gladness. 
His  coming  shall  bring 

Surcease  to  our  sadness. 

Let  us  eat  of  the  fruit  of  Desire  and  be  drunk  with  the 
wine  of  our  madness. 


SONNET 

Oh,  might  I  fling  my  heart  beneath  thy  feet 
Shod  with  the  radiant  gladness  of  the  dawn, 
Despoiled  from  eastern  hill  and  dewy  lawn. 

Thrice  happy  dawn !     Thrice  happy  earth  to  greet 

Thy  footsteps,  with  new  flowers  springing  fleet. 
Thrice  happier  I,  from  barren  heights  withdrawn, 
To  give  my  heart  for  thee  to  tread  upon. 

Ah,  it  were  sweet !     Ah,  it  were  passing  sweet ! 
Natheless,  my  soul  above  me  weighs  aright 

Thy  lesser  soul,  that  stinted,  starved  and  doled, 
Strives  with  its  farthing  rush-light  in  the  night. 

I,  set  above  thee,  crowned  with  light  from  old, 
Stoop  down  adoring  from  an  ancient  height 

To  clip,  and  crown  thee  with  my  Shower  of  Gold. 


89 


THE  RED   ROSE   OF   EARTH 

God's  Benison  upon  the  Boy 
With  boyish  grace  who  came 

An  apotheosis  of  Joy 

That  scorched  me  as  with  flame. 

A  wave  of  -sorrow  swept  my  soul, 
My  eyes  with  tears  grew  dim. 

Oh  God!     What  seas  of  silence  roll 
Between  myself  and  him. 

The  morning  blossoms  in  his  eyes. 

Shall  not,  beneath  his  feet 
The  purple  hyacinth  arise 

The  Sun  God's  eyes  to  meet? 

Myself  am  franchised  in  the  stars; 

My  fingers  free  upon 
The  key  to  loose  the  morning's  bars 

And  usher  in  the  dawn. 

Yet,  though  I  draw  him  to  me  close 

With  pressure  of  the  hand, 
And  match  my  Star  with  his  Red  Rose, 

He  would  not  understand. 

I  watch  from  alien  heights  afar 

My  kindly  Halls  of  Birth ; 
And  I  would  give  my  farthest  Star 

For  his  Red  Rose  of  Earth. 


90 


OUR  LADY   OF   THE   GATE 

TO     SAN      FRANCISCO. 

While  still  the  pillars  of  the  earth  endure 

The  deep  foundations  of  Her  house  are  sure. 

Though  the  red  flag  of  cosmic  hate  unfurled 

Flash  through  the  caverns  of  the  underworld; 

Though  Titans  struggling  in  the  primal  deeps 

Fling  hill  on  hill,  to  gain  Her  sun-crowned  steeps, 

Still  shall  She  reign,  Our  Lady  of  the  Gate, 

Where  all  things  enter,  come  they  soon  or  late. 

Still  North  and  South,  still  East  and  West  shall  meet 

To  lay  their  vassal  homage  at  Her  feet. 

Still  Time,  Her  handmaid,  gather  to  Her  hands 

The  sea-flung  tribute  of  Her  subject  lands. 

Oh  Thou,  beloved !     Mother  of  many  men, 

Strong  sons,  who  build  Thy  broken  walls  again, 

Who  with  enduring  labor  set  the  base 

Of  all  Thy  Future  in  its  ancient  place. 

Temples  to  Hermes  shall  they  build,  to  meet 

The  needs  that  spring  beneath  his  winged  feet. 

Yet  at  those  altars,  where  the  God  receives 

The  tangled  vows  of  traders  and  of  thieves, 

Yea,  even  there,  diviner,  drifted  down 

From  higher  heights,  a  higher  light  may  crown. 

Oh,  may  that  Flower  of  Beauty  that  was  Greece, 

That  Star  of  Splendour  that  was  Rome,  increase, 

And  bloom  familiar  round  Thy  wonted  ways, 

And  shine  above  Thee  with  serener  rays. 

So  shalt  Thou  hear,  the  while  Thy  walls  aspire, 

The  throbbing  music  of  the  Sun  God's  lyre. 


THE   GOD    ON    HORSEBACK 

A  wind  grows  out  of  the  breeze 
And  lashes  the  frightened  trees, 
Till  they  cry  out  loud  in  their  pain, 
Till  they  cry  to  the  wind  in  vain ; 
And  the  wind  complains  to  the  seas. 

And  the  notes  of  an  old  refrain 
Rise  clear  above  wind  and  rain. 

And  the  pulse  of  my  soul  is  stirred 

By  a  melody  long  unheard, 
That  calls  to  me  not  in  vain. 

And  I  see  him  once  more,  as  when 

I  saw  him  before  me  then, 
When  he  touched  for  a  moment's  space 
My  life  with  his  strength  and  grace, 

And  rode  from  my  life  again. 

A  gallant  and  boyish  form,   • 
In  the  breath  of  the  south  wind  warm 
That  toyed  with  his  tumbled  hail- 
That  kissed  him  and  found  him  fair, 
As  he  spurred  in  front  of  the  storm. 

He  leaned  from  his  seat,  and  cast 

A  smile  at  me  as  he  passed. 

And  the  lust  of  Life  and  the  pride 
Of  the  Boy  God,  spurred  and  astride, 

Thrilled  like  a  clarion's  blast. 


92 


Ah,  little  Ghost,  when  we  stand 
With  the  ghosts,  in  No  Man's  Land, 
Will  you  come  with  boyish  grace, 
With  the  old  smile  on  your  face, 
And  greet  me,  and  understand? 


SONNET 

Have  at  you,  sir,  again !     Your  walls  are  high. 

I,  disinherited  and  dispossessed, 

Unwelcome  suitor  and  unbidden  guest, 
The  jest  of  some  mad  Boy  God  in  the  sky, 
Yet  shall  I  enter  in;  I,  even  I. 

I,  set  apart  by  some  supreme  behest, 

By  all  the  Splendid  Madness  in  my  breast, 
To  win  your  walls,  and  higher  walls,  or  die. 

Scorn  not  to  meet  me.     No  unknightly  lance 
Of  border  foray  seeks  this  stricken  field; 

Forged  on  the  ringing  anvil  of  Romance, 
In  the  hot  furnaces  of  Grief  annealed. 

With  it  I  seek  My  Own,  which  lies,  perchance, 
In  yonder  frowning  castle  keep  concealed. 


93 


FEET  OF  CLAY 

I  said,  "I  will  fashion  a  god, 

And  worship  it  in  a  shrine. 
I  am  weary  of  staff  and  rod 

And  the  touch  of  the  All  Divine. 
I  have  clutched  at  the  morning's  bars 

When  the  gates  were  flung  apart. 
I  have  drawn  the  light  of  the  stars 

Like  lances,  unto  my  heart. 
I  am  weary,  and  now,  meseems, 

I  should  live  my  life  while  I  may." 
And  I  fashioned  it  in  my  dreams, 

And  the  feet  of  the  idol  were  clay. 

And  beautiful  to  behold 

The  glorious  image  grew. 
And  the  hair  was  brown  or  gold, 

And  the  eyes  were  brown  or  blue. 
And  it  was  absolute  good 

As  deep  as  my  eyes  could  see. 
And  truer  than  truth  it  stood 

For  that  it  was  truth  to  me. 
And  the  work  of  my  hands  was  sweet, 

I  worshipped  it  night  and  day. 
And  I  flung  my  soul  at  its  feet, 

And  the  feet  of  the  idol  were  clay. 

And  they  mocked  the  work  of  my  soul 
As  faulty  and  incomplete, 


94 


With  the  human  part  of  the  whole, 

And  the  stain  of  earth  on  the  feet. 
And  I  said  to  them,  "Misbegot ! 

Beggars  in  brain  and  in  soul ! 
I  love  it  for  what  it  is  not, 

And  not  as  a  perfect  whole." 
And  I  said,  "I  will  have  my  will. 

Pharisees,  go  your  way. 
I  will  love  and  worship  it  still." 

And  the  feet  of  the  idol  were  clay. 


95 


TO   ONE   WHO   KNOWS 

I  thank  thee,  dear,  for  coming  in  the  night 

To  him  who  loved  thee  in  remembered  days 

Beyond  thy  comprehension  or  desire. 

Yea,  I  did  know  in  that  vast  loneliness 

That  crowds  my  steps  upon  the  barren  heights, 

Where  Absolute  Sorrow,  purple-robed  and  crowned, 

Broods  o'er  the  crowding  throngs  that  pay  their  tithes 

Of  sweat  and  tears  at  all  her  wayside  shrines, 

That  thou  wouldst  come;  that  thou  wouldst  surely  seek 

Him  who  might  seek  thee  not.     And  I  rejoice 

That  not  the  august  music  of  the  spheres 

That  rolls  its  surges  on  the  farthest  shores 

Of  space  illimitable,  taught  thine  ear, 

With  its  diviner  thunder  to  forget 

The  minor  mellow  melodies  of  earth. 

Blew  not  some  breeze  across  some  charmed  land, 

Through  some  enchanted  gates  of  long  ago, 

Through  which  our  lingering  feet,  with  morning  shod, 

Our  foreheads  garlanded  with  dews  and  balms, 

Passed  through  the  gates  of  dawn,  to  where  a  bow 

Spanned  all  our  heavens,  and  lit  our  path  on  earth 

That  thus  I  saw  thee,  as  in  truth  I  saw. 

Thou,  all  thyself,  thou,  all  and  only  mine, 

Thou,  as  I  knew  thee,  flawed  with  the  sweet  flaw, 

The  gracious  birth  bark  of  our  Mother  Earth, 

That  sets  the  jewel  nearer  and  more  dear. 


96 


TO    SAN    FRANCISCO 

If  we  dreamed  that  we  loved  Her  aforetime,  'twas  the  ghost 

of  a  dream;   for  I  vow 
By  the  splendour  of  God  in  the  highest,  we  never  have 

loved  Her  till  now. 
When  Love  bears  the  trumpet  of  Honour,  oh,  highest  and 

clearest  he  calls, 
With  the  light  of  the  flaming  of  -towers,  and  the  sound 

of  the  rending  of  walls. 
When  Love  wears  the  purple  of  Sorrow,  and  kneels  at 

the  altar  of  Grief, 
Of   the    flowers   that    spring   in   his    footsteps,    the   white 

flower   of   Service   is   chief. 
As  a  flower  on  the  snow  of  Her  bosom,  as  a  star  in  the 

night  of  Her  hair, 
We  bring  to  our  Mother  such  token  as  the  time  and  the 

elements  spare. 

If  we  dreamed  that  we  loved  Her  aforetime,  adoring  we 

kneel  to  Her  now, 
When  the   golden    fruit   of  the   ages   falls,   swept  by   the 

wind  from  the  bough. 
The  beautiful  dwelling  is  shattered,  wherein,  as  a  queen 

at  the  feast, 
In  gems  of  the  barbaric  tropics  and  silks  of  the  ultimate 

East,      . 
Our   Mother   sat  throned  and  triumphant,   with  the  wise 

and  the  great  in  their  day. 
They  were  captains,  and  princes,  and  rulers ;  but  She,  She 

was  greater  than  they. 

97 


We  are  sprung  from  the  builders  of  nations;  by  the  souls 

of  our  fathers  we  swear, 
By  the  depths  of  the  deeps  that  surround  Her,  by  the 

height  of  the  heights  She  may  dare, 
Though  the  Twelve  league  in  compact  against  Her,  though 

the  sea  gods  cry  out  in  their  wrath. 
Though  the  earth  gods,  grown  drunk  of  their  fury,  fling 

the  hilltops  abroad  in  Her  path, 
Our  Mother  of  masterful  children  shall  sit  on  Her  throne 

as  of  yore, 
With  Her  old  robes  of  purple  about  Her,  and  crowned 

with  the  crowns  that  She  wore. 

She  shall  sit  at  the  gates  of  the  world,  where  the  nations 

shall  gather  and  meet, 
And  the  East  and  the  West  at  Her  bidding  shall  lie  in  a 

leash  at  Her  feet. 


98 


CHI-CA-GO!    CHI-CA-GO! 

AT    SAN     FRANCISCO,     APRIL     18,     1906. 

When  the  long  appointed  Morning  from  the  primal  deeps 

awoke ; 

When  the  Guilty  Hour  of  God  released  the  Moment  and 
the  Stroke, 

Then  the  human  ant  hill  stirred, 
And  it  trembled  as  it  heard 
O'er  the  wreck  and  wrack  of  matter,  the  deep  thunder  of 

God's  Word 
In  reverberating  echoes,  o'er  a  hell  of  flame  and  smoke. 

Here  was  touchstone  for  the  Human.     Fear  and  Terror 
unconfined 

From  the  soul's  supreme  dominion  and  the  leashes  of  the 
mind, 

Drove  them  forth  and  backward,  drove 
Them  in  broken  waves,  that  strove 

In   the  vortex   of   a   whirlpool,   neath   the   flaming   skies 
above. 

But  serene,  clear-eyed  and  steadfast,  there  was  one  re 
mained  behind. 

And  the  shattered  walls  about  him  groaned  and  trembled 

as  he  bent 

In  apocalyptic  vision  o'er  the  shining  instrument; 
While  he  strove,  with  vain  essay 
To  control  the  rebel  ray, 

To  Chi-ca-go,  Chi-ca-go,  two  thousand  miles  away. 
And  the  trembling  wires  refused  to  take  the  message  that 
he  sent. 

99 


.Oh,  he  wrought  with  steadfast  fingers,  and  a  soul  uncon- 

quered  still, 
While  the  tempest  stormed  the  lowland  and  swept  onward 

to  the  hill. 

While  the  flame  of  dot  and  dash 
Answered  to  a  redder  flash 
From  the   flaming  towers   and  steeples,   punctuated  by   a 

crash. 
And   the    rebel    lightning   flickered,    unsubservient   to   his 

will. 

Then  Pity's  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears,  and  Mercy's  heart 
was  stirred; 

And   the    Soul   of    God   grew   troubled   at   the    lightning- 
tangled  word; 

At  the  Human  cry  that  came 
Up  to  Him  on  wings  of  flame, 

Crying  out,  "Help,  Help !"  to  Brothers,  in  the  Great  All 
Father's  Name. 

And  that  cry  of  August  Sorrow,  with  its  solemn  meaning 
blurred. 

And  He  spoke  unto  the  lightning  and  it  hastened  to  obey; 
And  the  letters  formed  like  soldiers,  in  an  orderly  array; 
And  they  hastened  by  God's  Grace 
O'er  the  lands  of  conquered  Space, 
And  the  world  fell  back  behind  them,  in  the  fury  of  the 

race 

To  the  gates  of  Human  Brotherhood,  two  thousand  miles 
away. 


100 


OUR   LADY   OF   THE   DOME 

The  God  has  spoken !     Be  it  so. 

Let  not  the  shrines  of  Hermes  fail 
Of  all  we  hold  most  dear,  although 

We  give  our  honour  with  this  sale. 

Are  loyal  faith  and  honour  more, 
Are  they  as  much  as  fallen  leaves 

From  last  year's  wind  storm,  cast  before 
The  god  of  traders — and  of  thieves. 

Despoiled  of  all  that  once  we  were; 

Of  all  that  once  was  ours  bereft; 
The  all  of  all  our  past  was  there, 

This  crown  upon  our  brows  was  left. 

Unmoved  before  the  shock  that  sapped 
The  pillars  of  the  earth,  she  stood, 

And  watched  the  flood  of  flame  that  lapped 
Her  sky-aspiring  altitude. 

With  patient  and  with  steadfast  eyes, 
Through  murky  day  and  fire-sown  night, 

She  saw  the  star  of  hope  arise, 
And  dark  delivered  of  the  light. 

And  now,  from  her  abiding  place 

Cast  down,  and  thrown  as  so  much  dirt 

To  traders  in  the  market  place! 
Oh,  high  and  over  Gods  avert 


101 


The  shorter  shrift  of  ruffian  hand, 
The  captive  queen  to  traders  cast. 

The  Future  withers  of  that  land 
That  sells  the  altars  of  its  Past. 

Oh,  were  there  men,  among  the  men 
Who  grasp  with  mailed  hand  the  Now, 

Would  rather  purchase  of  the  Then 
Her  laureled  franchise  for  their  brow! 

Ah,  that  indeed  a  gracious  gift, 
And  that  in  truth  the  fairies'  gold, 

Crowned,  throned,  and  sceptred,  to  uplift 
Our  Lady  to  her  place  of  old. 

Or,  on  supremer  heights  to  stand 
O'er  the  new  altars  of  our  home. 

From  frozen  heart  and  ruffian  hand 
God  Save  Our  Lady  of  the  Dome. 


102 


THE   ROSE  OF  PEACE 

TO     A     CHILD     DEAD     AT     THE     FOOT     OF     SEVENTH      STREET, 
SAN    FRANCISCO. 

From  some  fair  heavens  the  sudden  splendour  fell, 
Some  gracious  fingers  wove  the  hidden  spell, 
Wrought  some  compassionate  god  this  miracle. 

Whence  earnest  thou?    What  gardens  of  delight 
Gave  thee  to  earth,  to  grow  up  tall  and  white, 
Bear  bud  and  blossom  in  a  single  night? 

Doubt  not  thy  life  was  drawn  of  heavenly  dew, 
Down  filmy  web  of  rainbows,  falling  through 
On  this  old  Rose  of  Peace,  forever  new. 

Here,  where  the  foul  and  noxious  vapours  creep, 
Like  poisonous  serpents,  from  the  ooze  and  seep 
That  sap  the  city's  rotting  refuse  heap; 

Here,  the  great  Master  molds  His  crudest  clay. 
His  wheels  revolving  swiftly,  night  and  day, 
Turn  out  His  image,  grim  and  gaunt,  and  gray. 

Yet  here  was  holy  ground;  a  moment's  space 
So  gracious  and  so  hallowed  was  the  place, 
That  I,  the  lonely  passer,  veiled  my  face. 

And  faltered,  lest  I  tread  too  hard  upon 

His  noiseless  steps,  whose  fingers  thin  and  wan 

Unbar  to  us  the  gateways  of  the  dawn. 

103 


Strange  that  my  memories  linger  'round  the  spot, 
Which  doubtless  she  who  bore  him  hath  forgot, 
While  I,  who  knew  him  not,  forget  him  not. 

And  still  I  wonder,  as  I  wondered  then, 
To  feel  the  gush  of  sudden  tears  again, 
Th'  unwonted  and  unwilling  tears  of  men. 

Oh,  little  ghost,  that  flitted  wan  and  white 
Between  the  purple  curtains  of  the  night, 
Oh,  younger  brother,  with  my  elder  right; 

Oh,  child,  whose  widely  wandering  footsteps  cease 
To  tread  the  path  where  days  and  years  increase, 
Clasp  the  white  marvel  of  your  Rose  of  Peace. 

But  I,  whom  not  the  toys  of  time  beguiled, 
God  help  me  that  I  envied  this  dead  child, 
Passing  from  all  defilement,  undefiled. 

Oh,  Thou,  divine,  serene,  compassionate, 
I  may  not  seek  Thee,  but  I  watch  and  wait 
To  see  Thee  beckon  from  the  eternal  gate. 

Not  long.     I  see  the  bow  of  promise  shine; 
My  certain  covenant  with  the  Soul  Divine; 
What  God  I  know  not,  but  the  Gift  is  mine. 


104 


THE    TRYST    OF    FATE 

"/  have  never  seen  you  do  aught  but  laugh. 

Play  day  love,  could  you  laugh  with  tne 

If  we  stopped  the  doing  of  things  by  half 

Play  day  comrade,  awake  from  sleep, 

There  is  work  to  do,  and  a  tryst  to  keep. 

We  must  be  far  when  morning  spills 

His  cup  of  light  on  the  eastern  hills. 

Thou  and  I  until  we  stand 

Free  and  fiefed  in  no  man's  land. 

Wake!     There  is  one  who  stands  beside 

Thy  bed,  who  may  not  be  denied. 

Though  thou  set  thy  soul  upon  the  chance 

Of  the  loaded  dice  of  circumstance. 

Still  it  must  be,  as  it  was  before, 

Thou  the  lesser,  and  I  the  more. 

So  all  our  yesterdays  have  proved 

Me  the  lover,  and  thee  the  loved. 

Bend  thy  soul  to  my  stronger  will. 

Thou  wert  mine  of  old,  and  I  claim  thee  still. 

Mine  in  body  and  soul  and  breath, 

In  our  yesterdays  of  life  and  death. 

And  ever  through  cycles  of  the  sky 

Still  thou  wert  thou,  and  I  was  I. 

And  boy  and  boy,  or  man  and  maid, 

Our  souls  stood  naked  and  unafraid. 

And  our  myriad  lives  clasped  hands,  I  wis, 

To  lead  our  steps  to  a  night  like  this. 


105 


Gently,  gently,  lest  we  awake 

Eyes  to  weep,  and  hearts  to  break; 

Lest  their  woman's  weeping  and  woman's  prayers 

Clutch  at  my  purpose  unawares. 

And  the  splendid  madness  of  our  dream 

Burst  like  bubbles  upon  the  stream. 

'Tis  bravely  done.     Your  careless  stride 

Keeps  us  together,  side  by  side, 

To  the  boat  that  struggles  on  the  tide. 

That  flutters  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing; 

That  strains  at  its  leash,  a  living  thing. 

There  in  the  mirk  of  the  fading  town, 

The  lights  of  the  well-lost  world  go  down. 

And  the  rags  of  life  that  we  flung  behind 

Flaunt  their  littleness  down  the  wind. 

And  the  tattered  banners  of  the  storm 

Flaunt  in  front  of  the  south  wind  warm 

And  the  waves  in  their  white-lipped  anguish  cry 

To  an  angry  God  in  an  angry  sky. 

And  ever  we  settle  as  we  drift 

For  the  sea  flows  in  through  flaw  and  rift. 

And  the  wine  of  Being  disappears 

From  the  broken  cup  of  your  twenty  years. 

Scarce  have  you  pressed  your  lips  of  flame 

To  its  splendid  sin  and  sorrow  and  shame. 

Now  night  draws  down  and  the  lights  burn  low, 

Play  day  love,  it  is  time  to  go. 

A  swirl  of  waters,  a  gasp  for  breath, 

And  the  wide,  free  liberty  of  death. 


106 


TO   OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

The  master  of  a  double  art, 

He  bore  the  gifts  to  make  man  whole; 

His  tears  and  laughter  for  the  soul, 
A  potion  for  the  body's  smart. 

If  not  the  highest,  yet  so  high, 

So  clear  and  sweet  his  message  rang, 
If  not  a  priest  or  prophet  sang 

Yet  the  whole  world  was  more  thereby. 

And  the  sad  age  forgot  awhile 

Her  sweat  and  tears,  and  stopped  to  quaff 
The  mellow  music  of  his  laugh, 

And  answered  to  it  with  a  smile. 

And  yet,  methinks,  he  might  have  built 
Those  Statelier  Mansions  for  his  art, 
Whereon  the  sweat  of  soul  and  heart 

About  the  corner  stone  are  spilt. 

He,  fiefed  in  yonder  blue  serene; 

He,  free  beyond  the  morning  bars; 

He,  franchised  in  the  farther  stars, 
And  the  wide  spaces  in  between. 

Here  had  he  with  firm  footstep  trod, 
Here  had  he  swept  the  sounding  lyre, 
Whose  waves  of  thunder  and  of  fire 

Surge  upwards  to  the  feet  of  God; 


107 


But  that  he  chose  of  his  own  will 

To  heal  the  grievous  wounds  of  man ; 
To  walk  the  Good  Samaritan, 

And  gentle  healer  of  the  ill; 

To  pour  the  balsam  of  his  mirth, 
Free  flowing  from  the  lesser  fount 
Sprung  midways  on  the  sacred  mount, 

Upon  the  tired  heart  of  earth. 

Perchance,  he  chose  the  better  part. 

And  ye,  who  knew  and  loved  him,  bring 
The  first  arbutus  of  the  spring 

To  lay  above  his  gentle  heart. 


108 


THE   DIVORCE 

"Mr.  Death,  you're  a  lawyer  of  well-known  repute, 

Your  practice  extensive.     I  bring  you  my  suit. 

I  had  sought  you  so  long  that  my  hopes  had  grown  dull, 

When  I  saw  on  your  doorways  the  crossbones  and  skull. 

My  name  is,  or  rather,  my  husband's  is,  Life. 

And  I  am,  or  rather,  I  have  been  his  wife. 

Twas  a  match  that  I  sought  not.     My  parents,  in  truth, 

Limed  the  bird,   set  the  trap,   forged  the   chains   for  my 

youth. 

What  I  want?    .Oh,  'tis  only  the  old  tale,  of  course, 
I  am  tired  of  my  husband,  and  seek  a  divorce." 
"I  well  know  your  husband.     In  truth,  I  may  say 
That  I  own  his  estates.     As  you  know,  he's  quite  gay. 
They  are  heavily  mortgaged;  his  assets  are  nil 
If  I  chose  to  foreclose,  as  I  possibly  will." 
"In  the  meanwhile,  I  hope — may  I  hope  ? — you  will  choose 
To  press  my  case  for  me.     You  will  not  refuse? 

For  the  fee "     "Oh,  I  charge  a  high  price,  to  be  sure. 

But  the  game's  worth  the  candle.     I'm  certain  to  cure. 

In  fact,  I  may  say,  without  any  restraint, 

When  I'm  done  with  a  client  he  ne'er  makes  complaint. 

For  the  cause  of  your  action — I  ask,  though  I  know, 

Incompatible — each  of  you — mutually  so." 

"Oh,  you've  told  it  yourself.     He's  too  florid,  too  gay, 

Too  gaudy  of  night,  and  too  tawdry  of  day. 

Our  union  was  cursed  with  the  curse  of  the  Lord. 

I  shrink  from  his  bed,  and  I  starve  at  his  board." 

"What!   he  starves  you?"     "Ay,  starves  me — that  is,  on 

the  whole 

109 


He  feeds  up  my  body,  and  starves  down  my  soul. 

He  serves  me  three  courses — fear,  pain  and  despair, 

Washed  down  with  a  draught  of  the  black  wine  of  care. 

But  the  dew  on  the  blossom,  the  sun  on  the  dew, 

The  blue  of  the  sky,  and  a  star  in  the  blue, 

The  gold-spangled  dust  on  the  butterflies'  wings, 

The  grace  of  all  gracious,  intangible  things, 

These  fail  from  his  menu.     In  truth,  he  don't  know. 

Is  the  fault  his  or  mine?     God  hath  fashioned  him  so." 

"Your  case  is  a  sad  one,  but  old  as  the  earth. 

It  clutched  at  your  soul  through  the  gateways  of  birth; 

It  followed  your  footsteps  wherever  you  trod; 

The  ghost  of  yourself,  and  the  Shadow  of  God. 

Have  patience  a  moment,  and  know  that  the  doors 

Of  my  office  swing  wide,  to  such  cases  as  yours. 

I  will  draw  up  your  papers,  and  seal  with  my  seal 

That  bars  change  of  venue,  admits  no  appeal; 

That  no  court  can  annul,  when  the  sentence  is  spoke; 

Nor  the  juggling  of  lawyers  rescind,  nor  revoke. 

Tomorrow  we  seek  His  Superior  Court, 

The  last  high  tribunal  of  Human  resort. 

But  the  Judge,  though  a  just  One,  is  known  as  severe, 

And  I  fear  that  you "  "No,  friend,  fear  not  that  I  fear. 

With  his  ring  did  he  wed  me,  who  holds  me  with  chains; 
He  won  me  as  bride;  as  a  slave  he  retains. 
Break  the  chains!     Set  me  free,  and  my  soul  will  rejoice 
In  His  lightning  of  eye  and  His  thunder  of  voice. 
If  His  justice  avails  not,  His  charity  fails, 
I  will  throw  my  despair  'gainst  His  wrath  in  the  scales." 
"Till  we  meet  then,  adieu."     "Au  revoir,  not  adieu, 
Since  I  seek  on  the  morrow  His  courtroom  with  you." 

110 


TO  AMBROSE  BIERCE 

For  that  I  came  to  you  a  guest, 

Where  guest  unhid  might  haply  meet 
Small  place  whereon  to  set  his  feet, 

And  scanty  furtherance  of  his  quest; 

For  that  to  one  ill  used  to  sue, 

Who  deemed  his  suit,  perchance,  o'er  bold 
From  high  and  kindly  heart  you  told 

Largesse  of  praise  beyond  his  due. 

I  thank  you ;  were  my  thoughts  but  deeds, 
Or  might  I  cancel  deed  with  thought, 
Then  of  my  thanks  to  you  were  wrought 

The  full  contentment  of  your  needs. 


'Tis  well.  I  will  not  make  my  Art 
The  jester  in  the  people's  court; 
Nor  bid  the  Goddess  born  resort 

A  harlot  to  the  public  mart. 

God  wot,  I  enter  not  the  race 

For  large  success  and  honour  scant, 
The  apotheosis  of  Cant, 

The  Triumph  of  the  Commonplace. 

Methinks,  such  race  were  well  unrun. 

The  God  may  vanish  whence  He  came. 

And  I,  I  quit  the  losing  game, 
Scarce  worth  the  winning — if  I  won. 

Ill 


"AH,    GIVE    US    BUT    YESTERDAY  !! 

The  night  has  fled  before  him ; 

And  the  victor  sun  is  borne, 
Robed  and  crowned  in  royal  splendour, 

Through  the  gateways  of  the  morn ; 
With  his  cloth  of  gold  before  me, 

Yet  my  sad  heart  turns  away 
Wounded  by  the  golden  lances 

Of  the  sun  of  Yesterday. 

The  morning  light  is  gleaming, 

And  the  morning  dew  impearled 
On  the  golden  roses  clinging 

Round  the  roof-tree  of  the  world. 
But  I  turn  in  heart-sick  longing 

To  the  blossom  on  the  spray, 
And  the  dew  upon  the  blossom, 

In  the  dawn  of  Yesterday. 


112 


A  LETTER  TO  A  GHOST 

Walter,  do  you  remember  yet, 
Across  the  clanging  barriers, 
Fast  growing  wider,  of  five  years, 

The  April  morning  when  we  met? 

You  may,  but  I  shall  not  forget. 

April,  the  name  is  melody; 

The  Spirit  of  the  Spring  that  weaves 
White  blossoms  in  amidst  green  leaves, 

And  flings  them  to  the  bird  and  bee, 

From  daisied  turf  and  orchard  tree. 

But  now  with  angry  step  she  came, 
Her  feet  ascending  up  the  path 
Of  hatred,  to  the  heights  of  wrath, 

Wherefrom  the  Tithes  of  God  to  claim 

In  an  apocalypse  of  flame. 

I  was — n'importe — you  were  seventeen, 
A  fair,  slim  stripling  in  his  May; 
How  might  I  match  my  brown  and  gray 

With  your  young  springtime's  gold  and  green? 

God  and  all  time  rose  up  between. 

You  knew — or  did  you  know? — haw  fond 
I  was  of  your  fresh  morning  dew, 
And  all  the  boyish  flame  of  you. 


113 


For  me,  my  friendship  never  wanned; 
Though  you  have  surely  grown  beyond. 

How  should  you  know?     I  never  told 
My  thoughts,  but  laid  them  by  to  stir 
My  soul  with  scents  of  lavender, 
With  legends  from  a  page  of  gold, 
To  warm  my  heart  by,  when  I'm  old. 

We  shall  not  see  their  like  again, 
Those  passionate,  heroic  days, 
At  which  the  world  stood  still  to  gaze  ; 
Ah  me!     In  those  days  men  were  men, 
And  brothers  to  each  other  then. 

And  heaven  high  they  piled  their  vows 
To  see  Our  Mother  stand  again 
Grown  fairer  in  the  sight  of  men, 
With  Her  old  crown  upon  Her  brows 
In  Her  new  builded  Golden  House. 

And  I,  I  felt  my  pulses  stir 
—Though  exiled  from  her  side  I  stood- 
With   Her  imperious  claim  of   Blood; 
And  brought  the  body's  sweat  to  Her 
As  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh. 

Our  Sacred  Mother,  from  whose  brow 
Her  crowns  were  fallen  in  the  dust; 
Dethroned,  unsceptred  and — August, 

114 


Thrice  more  august  and  dearer  now 
Than  sceptred,  robed  and  crowned,  I  vow. 

Ah,  Walter,  you  had  laughed  to  know 
How  I,  who  toiled  among  the  brick, 
Slave  to  the  genii  of  the  pick, 
Rose  up  on  Spirit  Heights,  to  throw 
My  soul's  vast  pity  o'er  Her  woe. 

How  I  in  all  that  vast  profound 
Of  ruin,  felt  the  All  divine 
Approach  me  in  the  Human  Shrine, 
Where  I,  adoring,  knelt  and  bound 
My  Love  Her  bleeding  wounds  around. 

Yet  had  I  pride,  that  none  had  dared 
Save  she,  to  tread  such  deeps  of  woe; 
Or  light  so  red  a  torches'  glow; 
So  high  its  sullen  splendour  flared 
The  Gods  upon  Olympus  stared. 

And  that  apocalypse  of  dole, 

That  sorrow  sown  across  the  land 
By  some  Divine  and  Wanton  hand, 
Was  the  strong  fortress  and  the  goal 
To  which  I  strove  to  lift  my  soul. 

Ah,  Memory  is  Sorrow's  crown, 
Wherefrom,  amidst  the  thorns  arise 
The  Jewels  of  Remembered  Eyes; 

115 


And  blue  eyes  call  to  me,  or  brown, 
From  all  the  widely  ruined  town. 

From  all  Her  avenues  that  led 

From  nowhere,  through  all  gaunt  distress, 
To  waste  and  empty  nothingness, 
Ghosts  of  the  quick  and  of  the  dead 
Gather  at  midnight  round  my  bed. 

And,  Walter,  since  a  ghost  you  are, 
—Nay,  laugh  not;  join  me  in  the  toast, 
"A  health  to  my  remembered  ghost," — 
I  seek  your  ghostly  light  from  far, 
As  the  Night  cries  out  to  the  Star. 

And  so  I  weave  for  you  this  net, 

Whose  fragile  threads  are  wet  and  stained 
From  the  gold  chalice,  ceaseless  drained, 

Of  the  heart's  blood  and  the  soul's  sweat, 

On  the  black  altars  of  Regret. 

And  now  I  come  to  seek  you  far, 
Who  know  me  not,  nor  seek  to  know ; 
I,  also  ghost  of  long  ago, 

Cry :     "God  be  with  you  where  you  are ; 

Adieu.     Or  is  it  au  revoir?" 


116 


THE  TOUCH  OF  THE  HUMAN 
APRIL,  1906. 

In  the  days  when  the  Gods  came  near  to  men, 
And  the  souls  of  men  were  wanned  and  thinned, 

As  a  Great  Voice  rose  and  fell  again 
In  sullen  thunder  above  the  wind; 

Then  our  souls  crouched  down  in  the  dust  to  hear 
And  to  shrink  away  from  them  as  they  came; 

And  their  visible  presence  swept  so  near 

That  we  shrank  and  shriveled  within  the  flame. 

And  we  lay  supine,  and  with  shattered  will, 

While  they  came  and  Spoke,  and  went  rough  shod 

O'er  the  frightened  earth,  that  shivered  still 
At  the  awful  imminence  of  the  God. 

And  they  passed;  and  we  rose  again  and  crept 

To  stare  in  a  stupid  wonderment 
At  the  wonderful  ruins,  tempest  swept, 

In  the  visible  footsteps  where  they  went. 

Then  we  rose  again,  to  our  feet,  and  Stood ; 

And  Man  had  come  to  his  own  again ; 
We  were  heirs  of  an  old  historic  blood, 

Sons  of  our  Mother,  masterful  men. 

And  we  raised  the  glove  that  the  Fates  threw  down, 
With  an  angry  smile  and  stuck  it,  mayhap, 

117 


In  a  last  year's  hat  with  tattered  crown, 
Or  beside  our  pipe,  in  a  ragged  cap. 

And  we  swore  a  great  oath  to  set  the  base 

Of  a  greater  future  upon  our  past, 
And  Our  Mother's  House  in  its  ancient  place, 

In  despite  of  the  Fates — while  time  should  last. 

And  we  went  like  brothers,  and  sought  our  place, 
Gentle  and  simple,  churl  and  clown, 

Lofty  and  noble,  mean  and  base, 
In  the  broken  halls  of  the  bankrupt  town. 

And  I  came  as  became  me  to  come;  withal 
I  wrote  my  name  in  a  cynic  mood, 

In  a  cynically  loyal  scrawl 
In  the  League  of  Human  Brotherhood. 

And  I  stood  for  a  moment  glad,  but  dazed, 
At  the  sudden  thrill  of  the  Human  Touch, 

To  the  soul  that  fed  on  itself  and  gazed 
In  an  introspection  overmuch. 

They  were  gallant  days  when  the  shining  steel, 
Spade  and  hatchet,  shovel  and  pick, 

Flashed  in  the  cause  of  the  Commonweal, 
Round  twisted  girder  and  broken  brick. 

Steel  that  flashed  as  in  battle's  van ; 
Dust  that  rose  as  a  battle  cloud; 


118 


While  the  Crowned  and  Bleeding  Heart  of  Man 
Flashed  from  our  flags  a  defiance  proud. 

And  the  gates  of  Honour  were  closed  to  none; 

But  each  might  walk  with  his  bosom  starred 
With  the  Order  of  Service  himself  had  won, 

And  the  Cross  of  Merit,  a  God's  award. 

And  we,  who  were  heirs  of  the  ancient  blood, 
And  Sons  of  Our  Mother,  felt  the  stir 

Of  her  pulses  throbbed  to  our  hearts,  and  stood 
Less  for  ourselves,  and  more  for  Her. 

And  as  for  myself,  I  vow  I  served 

In  a  half  adoring  thankfulness; 
And  held  as  an  honour  not  all  deserved, 

The  right  to  succor  Her  in  distress. 

They  were  gracious  days;  and  they  touch  today 
With  a  gracious  hand;  and  the  ghosts  are  thick 

That  smiled  and  spoke  me,  and  went  their  way, 
As  I  toiled  in  the  ruins  with  spade  and  pick. 

And  I  thank  the  Gods  for  the  saving  grace 
Of  the  Human  Touch,  that  I  knew  ye  all, 

And  that  Sorrow  linked  our  names  for  a  space, 
On  a  tear-stained  page,  in  a  blood-red  scrawl. 

Fair  ghost  of  the  boy  with  golden  hair, 
Sad  ghost  of  the  man  with  hair  of  gray, 


119 


I  am  but  ghost,  and  but  ghosts  ye  are, 
Blown  out  on  the  winds  of  Yesterday. 

Let  us  tarry  a  moment  before  we  go, 
Dissonant  ghosts,  to  clutch  and  hold 

In  the  turbulent  age's  ebb  and  flow 

Our  phantom  measures  of  fame  or  gold. 

Tarry  a  little,  and  hear  me  vow 

By  the  dearest  oath  that  my  soul  may  swear, 
By  the  higher  light  on  my  wider  brow, 

And  the  leaf  of  Laurel  that  is  not  there, 

I  would  serve  again  for  the  Commonweal, 
In  the  ranks  of  the  men  grown  Titan  tall, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  wheel, 
And  All  for  One,  and  One  for  All. 

I  am  vowed  to  the  marble  breast  of  Art; 

The  banns  are  spoke  that  I  can  not  stay; 
And  my  soul  consents,  but  I  found  my  heart 

In  that  liaison  of  an  April  day. 

And  my  soul  may  thrive ;  but  my  heart  is  loath 
For  the  grip  of  flesh  in  the  halls  that  rang, 

To  the  man's  deep  drum  roll  of  Saxon  oath, 
And  the  silver  bugle  of  boyish  slang. 

Let  us  begone,  for  Our  Mother  calls 

From  Her  higher  heights,  and  we  may  not  stay 

In  the  beautiful,  broken,  ruined  halls, 
And  the  golden  glamour  of  Yesterday. 

120 


THE   SILENT   HOUSE 

Knock  !    Knock  !    The  door  is  barred. 
Ye  are  true  in  watch  and  ward 

Bolt  and  bar  and  lock,  so  witness  these,  my  fingers,  bruised 
and  scarred. 

Yet  I  know  they  would  not  feel 
Though  they  beat  on  triple  steel, 

While  I   wrench  the  dreadful  secret  from  its  black  and 
broken  seal. 

Oh,  the  dark,  forbidding  house 

Frowns  from  black  and  angry  brows, 
Like  a  violated  temple,  brooding  o'er  its  broken  vows. 

Surely,  Something,  silent  shod, 

In  the  middle  night  hath  trod 
In  the  inner  holies,  riving  at  the  handiwork  of  God. 

Speak  !    Speak  !    He  will  not  speak 

Though  I  cry  out  with  a  shriek; 

Though  the  coward  blood  runs  backward  from  the  pallor 
of  my  cheek; 

Though  I  cry  out  "It  is  I !" 

Comes  no  answer  to  my  cry 
Save  an  echo,  beaten  backward  from  the  adamantine  sky. 

Bring  the  axe  and  bring  the  bar; 
Let  us  throw  the  door  ajar 

On    the    guilty    Something,    hiding    where    the    trembling 
shadows  are; 

121 


Something  rending  with  its  claw; 
Dripping  ravin  from  its  jaw; 

Springing  up  to  tear  asunder,  crouching  down  again  to 
gnaw. 

Nay,  what  ecstasy  of  fear. 

Nothing !    There  is  nothing  here 
But  the  empty  casket,  rifled  of  the  gem  I  held  most  dear. 

He  hath  gone,  and  gone  with  him 

Something  vast  and -Something  dim, 
Something  filling  all  the  heavens  to  the  far  horizon's  rim. 

Not  as  wild  beasts  tear  their  prey 
Death  divorces  soul  from  clay, 

But  he  bears  it  on  white  wings  above  a  flawed  and  futile 
day. 

Let  us  leave  him  with  his  light 
Bleakly,  mystically  white. 

Let  us  wrap  the  shadows  round  us  and  go  forth  into  the 
night. 


122 


THE    BROTHERS 

I  am  My  Lord  of  Life, 
I  sit  in  the  crowded  ways, 

My  feet  are  red  with  the  strife 
Of  the  myriad  yesterdays. 

I  sit  in  the  market  place 

Where  souls  are  bought  and  sold, 
With  a  smile  on  my  false  face 

At  the  thirty  pieces  told. 

And  whenever  the  stakes  run  high 

Forever  my  skill  avails 
To  throw  with  the  loaded  die, 

And  juggle  the  lying  scales. 

But  they  fawn  about  my  feet; 

They  bend  the  supple  knee ; 
With  loyal  love  they  greet 

My  rags  of  royalty. 

Till,  at  closing  of  the  day, 

Broken,  bankrupt  and  banned, 

They  pass  from  me  away 
And  seek  my  brother's  land. 

I  am  My  Lord  of  Death, 
I  sit  from  the  throng  apart, 

In  my  palace  of  Hushed  Breath, 
In  the  land  of  Quiet  Heart. 

123 


And  my  palace  walls  frown  black 
When  the  evening  light  hath  gone; 

But  they  flush  and  answer  back 
The  light  of  Another  Dawn. 

With  my  brother,  Life,  I  keep 

A  tarnished  truce  of  fate. 
But  my  fair  twin  brother,  Sleep, 

Is  the  keeper  of  my  gate. 

His  face  is  fair  to  see; 

His  feet  are  shod  with  wool ; 
And  he  holds  the  golden  key 

Of  my  Palace  Beautiful. 

I  am  My  Lord  of  Death, 

I  am  My  Lord  of  Peace, 
In  my  palace  of  Hushed  Breath, 

In  the  valleys  of  Heartsease. 


124 


TO  JOAQUIN  MILLER 

To  thee  upon  a  purple  height, 

Lit  by  an  evening  star, 
I,  dweller  in  the  halls  of  night, 

And  where  the  shadows  are, 
Lifted  my  brows  unto  the  light, 

And  sought  thee  from  afar. 

And  I  rejoice,  that  in  my  days 
One  Day  hath  blossoms  more; 

Serenely  o'er  the  crowded  ways 
Of  all  my  days  before; 

As  a  white  lily  in  its  grace, 
To  kneel  to  and  adore. 

From  an  unbounding  unsuccess, 

From  him  who  nothing  hath, 
From  the  sad  captive  in  duress 

And  circled  round  with  wrath, 
How  shall  he,  from  his  littleness, 

Fling  gifts  upon  thy  path  ? 

That  thou,  perchance,  from  gracious  heart, 

With  kindly  hand  shall  raise 
The  scentless,  pale,  wild  flower  of  Art, 

That  blooms  upon  thy  ways, 
And  half  contemptuous  set  apart 

From  thy  full  crown  of  bays. 


125 


THE  WAR  SHIPS  OF  THE  SKIES 

In  the  vast  spaces  of  yon  blue  profound, 
Yon  silent  sea,  yon  world  without  a  sound, 
Comes  now  a  voice  to  waken — and  to  wound. 

Alas,  alas,  shall  yonder  stainless  blue 
Wrapped  in  red  flames,  distill  a  crimson  dew, 
Staining,  defiling,  dripping,  ghastly  through, 

On  the  child's  forehead,  on  the  sad-browed  Christ 

In  yonder  shrine,  Whose  Passion  unsufficed 

To  staunch  the  blood,  whereat  His  Blood  is  priced. 

Shall  twenty  ages  of  the  Prince  of  Peace 

Not  still  the  war  drums,  bid  the  trumpets  cease, 

Drive  man's  red  rapine  from  His  upper  seas? 

And  Man !     Shall  Nature's  first  and  final  cause 
The  polished  purport  of  Her  savage  laws, 
Shoot  forth  red  talons  with  his  wild  beast  claws ; 

Quarter  his  shadow  on  this  shield  of  light, 

Set  up  his  finite  with  the  infinite, 

His  war  tents  in  these  Halls  of  Day  and  Night? 


126 


GLOWING  EMBERS 

Oh,  boy's  thin  features,  cold  and  white, 

I  knew  you  warmly  human; 
Whence  comes  that  superhuman  light 

To  any  born  of  woman? 
The  King  hath  loved  him;  by  that  grace, 

Kinglike,  he  doth  inherit 
Majestically  in  this  place 

The  Kingdom  of  the  Spirit. 

The  doors  are  shut ;  the  shutters  drawn ; 

Nor  coming  now,  nor  going; 
The  King  hath  set  His  seals  upon 

The  house  of  His  bestowing. 
Its  master  gone,  the  King's  writ  strips 

The  dark,  deserted  dwelling. 
Oh,  boy,  beneath  those  close  shut  lips 

What  secrets  worth  the  telling ! 

But  yesterday,  a  careless  boy 

He  took  his  boyish  inning 
At  the  old  game — with  pagan  joy — 

Of  living  and  of  sinning. 
Dawn  set  her  jeweled  steps  of  light 

A  pathway  to  his  going; 
The  inner  chambers  of  the  night 

Held  secrets  for  his  knowing. 

Do  they  whose  footsteps  with  him  fared 
His  springtime  paths  of  pleasure, 

127 


Who  from  his  cup  of  summer  shared 
The  boy's  unstinted  measure, 

Who  sinned  with  him  his  boyish  sin, 
Who  halved  his  boyish  folly, 

Kneel  at  the  august  shrine,  wherein 
His  broken  toys  grow  holy? 

I  call  the  name  I  loved,  in  vain; 

Nor  answer  nor  replying; 
Only  the  winter  wind  and  rain 

Antiphonally  crying. 
Bertie,  to  yonder  heights  of  death 

That  boyish  name  endearing ! 
I  falter  it  beneath  my  breath, 

And  tremble  in  the  hearing. 

Ah,  dear,  for  thou  wert  passing  dear ; 

Perchance  for  this  the  dearer 
That  one  short  moment  set  thee  near, 

One  white-winged  instant,  nearer. 
Still,  flawed  with  folly  as  we  are, 

The  jewel  of  our  choosing 
Shines  ever  brighter  from  afar, 

And  dearer  for  the  losing. 

Ah,  Friend,  whose  boyish  footsteps  stray 

Past  sunrise  and  sunsetting, 
No  dawn  shall  light  the  eastern  way 

To  day  of  my  forgetting. 
A  light  illumes  my  pathway  yet 

128 


,  From  those  old  glowing  embers. 
And  thou  above  wilt  not  forget 
Him  who  on  earth  remembers. 

Kneels  Memory  in  her  holy  shrine, 

Where  purple,  rose  and  golden, 
Through  windows  of  the  spirit  shine 

Old  joys — lost  or  withholden. 
Here,  kneeling  in  a  secret  place, 

She  veils  her  face  and  falters, 
Seeing  thy  once  familiar  face 

At  her  familiar  altars. 


129 


THE  LEPER 

Nay,  come  not  near  me.     I  am  He 
Who  bruised  and  bleeding  from  her  rods, 

Whom  mortals  call  Necessity, 
Burned  incense  to  the  alien  gods. 

I  set  the  fool's  cap  on  my  head; 

I  bent  the  knee  where  Momus  rules ; 
I  kissed  the  hand  I  scorned;  and  led 

The  courtiers,  in  his  court  of  fools. 

The  silver  bells  rang  high  and  shrill 
Above  the  gibing  and  the  jeers. 

I  pledged  my  soul  to  drink  my  fill, 
Myself  the  maddest  of  my  peers. 

It  was  a  pleasant  jest;  but  now 
Tis  fire  of  hell.     No  god  averts 

The  ominous  circle  from  my  brow, 

Whereon  it  clings  and  stains  and  hurts. 

Nay,  touch  me  not,  and  come  not  nigh. 

Stand  not  my  sin  and  me  between. 
Let  my  soul  cleanse  it  with  its  cry, 

The  leper's  cry,  "Unclean!     Unclean!" 


130 


MY  LITTLE  GHOST 

Little  Ghost,  whose  footsteps  fleet 
Passed  me  in  the  crowded  street 

Where  the  torrents  of  the  people  in  the  frowning  canons 
meet ; 

Little  Ghost  of  flame  and  dew, 
Now  I  keep  my  tryst  with  you, 

And  the  morrow  after  Death,  my  soul  shall  pledge  you 
faith  anew. 

Little  Ghost  of  mine,  your  glance 
Pierced  my  bosom  like  a  lance 

Couched  for  God  and  Love  and  Honour,  in  the  old  days  of 
Romance. 

Nor  affirming,  nor  denying, 
Neither  question  nor  replying; 

For  we  passed  like  ships  in  ocean,  with  no  signal  flags 
a-flying. 

But  I  saw  your  hair  was  spun 

In  the  chambers  of  the  Sun, 
By  the  happy  Hours  awaiting  till  his  shining  race  was  won. 

Soft  as  silken  eider-down, 

Hair  of  gold,  or  hair  of  brown, 

This  I  know  not ;  but  I  know  you  wore  it  like  a  monarch's 
crown. 

Bluest  blue,  or  grayest  gray, 
Eyes  of  thine  I  may  not  say  ; 

131 


But  I  know  they  led  the  Morning,  and  it  blossomed  into 
Day. 

And  the  captive  day  was  drawn 
By  their  light  from  budding  dawn 

On  diviner  heights,  till  night  assumed  her  crown  of  stars 
thereon. 

Vanish,  little  Ghost  of  Gladness, 
Vision  of  a  Poet's  madness; 

Foam  and  sparkle  of  Delight  upon^my  purple  wine  of  sad 
ness; 

Lest  my  long,  black  shadow  grown 
Longer,  blacker,  shall  be  thrown 

On  the  path  before  your  footsteps,  and  be  added  to  your 
own. 


132 


GOD'S    HILL   AT    BELMONT 

West  of  Belmont  on  a  lonely  hill  are  a  few  crumbling  stones, 
bearing  the  date  of  the  early  'fifties.  The  jungle  has  swept  over 
them,  and  if  remembered  of  God,  they  are  quite  forgotten  of  man. 

Where  the  torrent  of  the  hills 
Pours  its  emerald  flood,  and  spills 

Overtopping  waves  of  verdure,  to  the  green  waves  of  the 
sea, 

They  have  laid  them  down  to  rest, 
With  the  green  turf  o'er  their  breast, 

They    have   reached   through   time,    and   taken    seizin   of 
Eternity. 

They  are  dust,  who  once  were  men; 

Earth  has  claimed  her  own  again; 

'Tis  the  final  law  of  nature,  once  they  were  and  now  are 
not. 

Creeps  o'er  them  the  chaparral, 

Over  them  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Man  forsaken,  man  forgotten,  in  this  all-forgotten  spot. 

Never  footstep  of  the  dawn 

Enters  here,  to  tread  upon 
The  encircling  shadows,  guarding  the  enchanted  solitude. 

Hesitant,  and  half  afraid, 

Lingers  noon,  without  the  shade, 

And  the  flying  night  flies  faster,  o'er  the  black  and  haunted 
wood. 

133 


When, the  mask  of  night  is  drawn 

From  the  face  of  the  last  dawn, 

When  before  the  last  great  moment,  heaven  and  earth  are 
hushed  and  still, 

When  the  final  trumpet  thrills 

To  the  stout  heart  of  the  hills, 
Will  the  lonely  dead  awaken,  on  this  lost  and  lonely  hill? 


SONNET 

Bring  us  nor  roses  white,  nor  roses  red 

To  crown  the  brows  of  love,  for  on  them  be 
The  garden's  sweat,  the  blood  of  Calvary. 

And  we,  alas !  whose  erring  feet  mislead 

To  new  and  stranger  faiths,  no  longer  tread 
The  once  familiar  paths  of  Arcady. 
Mayhaps,  our  souls  have  gained  Eternity, 

But  all  the  sweeter  ways  of  life  are  dead. 

Ah,  sweeter  these,  than  rose  of  mortal  knowing, 
Beside  the  enchanted  waters  flowing  deep 

Into  the  unknown  land,  the  poppies  blowing, 

Red,  sullen  torches  of  oblivion  glowing. 

But  our  sad  gods  their  one  last  guerdon  keep, 
Their  scarlet  poppies  of  eternal  sleep. 


134 


THE   HILLS   OF   OCEAN   VIEW 

Spring  is  regnant  in  the  valleys;  Spring  is  throned  upon 

the  mountains; 
She    hath    sent  her  royal  summons   forth;  her  vassal 

lands  are  fain 
To  attend  their  Sovereign  Lady  in  the  place  of  pleasant 

fountains 

That  have  spilled  themselves  before  her  in  a  shower  of 
golden  rain. 

She   hath   summoned   with   her   magic   wand   her   chosen 

maids  of  honour ; 
They  have  set  their  jeweled  footprints  o'er  the  threshold 

of  the  dawn; 
They  robe  her  in  her  purple  gown,  they  serve  and  wait 

upon  her; 

They  tire  and  dress  her  royal  head  and  set  her  crown 
thereon. 

I  am  captive  to  the  city  streets,  but  still  my  heart  goes 

straying; 
She  hath  touched  me  with  her  sceptre,  and  the  broken 

fetters  fall; 
Go  forth,  my  heart,  and  guide  my  feet  and  we  will  go 

a-Maying, 

For    Spring   hath   thrown   her   gentle    chains    about    a 
willing  thrall. 

Let  us  leave  the  stony  highways  and  the  tangle  of  the 
alleys, 

135 


The  false  and  fleeting  mirage  of  the  street  and  avenue, 
Let  us  seek  the  shaded  canyons  and  the  flower-enameled 

valleys, 
And  the  hills   I  knew   in  boyhood   rising  over  Ocean 

View. 

Oh,    my    heart,    from    gloomy   dungeons    let    us    sally    to 

recapture 
The   elusive   Something   vanished,   where   the   scent   of 

lilac  brings 

In  a  sudden  flash  of  memory  the  evanescent  rapture, 
And    the    more    enduring    heart-break    of    a    score    of 
buried  springs. 

We  will. wander  o'er  the  meadows  with  a  flame  of  poppies 

glowing 
— Stirring  bugle  blasts  of  color — where  the  Sun  God's 

coursers  stood; 
We    will    kneel    in    woodland    temples,    where    the    pallid 

blossoms  blowing 

Guard  the  chaste  untaken  altars,  Vestal  Virgins  of  the 
wood. 

We  will  seek  in  rugged  canyons  rising  upwards  from  the 

valleys, 
Like   a   Titan's  heaven-flung  stairway  with   its   higher 

steps  untrod, 

For  the  trillium's  vase  of  ivory,  like  a  sacrificial  chalice, 
With  its  triune  leaves  to  bring  to  mind  the  Trinity  of 
God. 


136 


Oh,  My  Hills  of  God  behind  me,  ever  purple  in  the  dis 
tance, 
Drenched  with  flying  ocean  vapors,  beaten  by  the  bitter 

wind, 
The    feet   of   flesh    forsake   ye,   but   the   soul    with   high 

insistence 

Hath   burst   her   prison    cells   of   clay    and   lingers   on 
behind. 

I  have  sought  and  found  the  jewel  of  the  Poet's  crowned 

passion 
In  the  Labyrinths  of  God,  whereof  my  fingers  hold  the 

clew, 

But  I  drop  the  Shining  Spirit  Thread  to  kneel  in  adoration 
To  the  ghosts  of  my  dead  springtimes  on  the  Hills  of 
Ocean  View. 


137 


DEAD  JOY 

Fair  as  the  Prince  of  Troy, 

Hidden  away 
Lieth  what  is  of  Joy 

Fairest  of  clay. 
Though  we  cry  out  to  the  boy 

Naught  will  he  say. 

Now  that  he  lieth  there 

Patient  and  meek, 
Smoothing  his  shining  hair 

Kissing  his  cheek, 
Speak !  In  your  wild  despair 

Bid  him  to  speak ! 

Nay,  he  will  answer  not 

Nor  yea  nor  nay. 
He  was  but  earth  begot; 

Now  he  is  clay. 
Come  from  the  haunted  spot, 

Hasten  away. 


138 


TO   SING  LEE 

AT    MILLBRAE,    APRIL     18,     1906. 

We  were  East  born  and  West  born,  and  alien  in  color,  in 

creed  and  in  birth, 
But  the  East  and  the  West  flung  together,  clasped  hands 

in  the  trembling  of  earth. 
What  struggles  of  Titans  imprisoned  in  nethermost  deeps 

of  the  prime, 

And  matching  their  Ossas  and   Pelions  'gainst  the  sun- 
circled  ramparts  of  Time; 
What   memories   stirred   in   her   bosom,   what   passionate 

pangs  of  unrest, 
What  taint  in  her  blood  from  of  olden,  thus  curdled  the 

milk  in  her  breast, 
That  she  turned  in  her  maniac  fury,  her  love  of  aforetime 

forsworn, 
With  her  features  contorted  and  trembling  in  hate  of  the 

sons  she  had  borne. 
For  flung  from  the  All  Mother's  bosom,  swept  out  by  the 

flame  of  her  wrath, 
We  fled  from  her  presence,  and  stumbled  in  the  pits  that 

she  digged  in  our  path. 
And  the  house  strained  hard  at  its  moorings,  and  battered 

and  wracked  out  of  form, 
Caught  up  in  the  whirlwind  of  Cosmos,  heaved  high  like 

a  ship  in  a  storm. 

A  moment,  a  cycle,  an  aeon,  we  strove  in  abysses  of  death, 
In  the  quicksands  that  swallowed  our  footsteps,  the  whirl 
pool  that  dragged  us  beneath. 

139 


Till  clasped  by  the  hand  of  Existence,  though  bleeding 

and  struck  to  the  floor, 
We  gathered  Our  Own  from  her  wreckage,  and  fought  out 

a  way  to  the  door. 

To  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  blossom,  to  sun  upon  blos 
som  and  thorn, 
To  breezes  from  Orient  hill-tops  that  blew  through  the 

gateways  of  morn, 
To  the  promise  of  God  in  the  sky,  that  circled  the  blue 

without  end, 
And  wrapped  us  about  from  His  Wrath,  as  we  looked  in 

the  face  of  a  Friend. 
Sprung  from  the  Esau  of  nations,  the  first  born  and  last  in 

the  race, 
In  the  adamant  Arch  of  Degree  he  was  set  as  a  stone  at 

the  base. 
And  doomed  by  the  souls  of  his  fathers  to  serve  with  his 

soul  in  the  mire 
For  the  husks  and  the  lees  of  Possession,  doled  down  from 

the  heights  of  Desire. 
So  he  stood  in  the  April  morning,  unlovely  in  face  and  in 

frame ; 
But  Pity  had  touched  the  gaunt  features  and  Mercy  shone 

out  as  a  flame. 
For  the  mask  of  the  Orient  fell  from  his  face,  in  the  shock 

that  released 
His  Soul  to  shine  forth  for  a  moment  from  inscrutable 

eyes  of  the  East. 

And  it  answered  the  Soul  of  the  West,  and  united  in  Kin 
ship  they  ran 

140 


From  the  anger  of  God  in  the  heavens,  to  clutch  at  the 

Human  in  Man. 
So  he  stood  in  our  doorway  unclaiming  the  kinship  of 

Blood  and  of  Birth, 
And  the  aid  that  he  tendered  a  neighbor  had  come  from 

the  ends  of  the  earth. 


THE   CALIFORNIA   POPPY 

With  large  and  liberal  largesse  behold, 

The  gilded  guerdon  of  a  thousand  rains. 

The  hills  grow  rich, -and  opulent  the  plains. 
The  fond,  sweet  miracle  that  Eden  told, 
To  Universal  Mother  Earth  of  old, 

A  mellow  melody  of  minor  strains, 

That  runs  with  Springtime  madness  in  her  veins, 
And  blossoms  from  her  breast  in  fairy  gold. 
Still  the  old  miracle,  forever  new 

With  each  new  spring  the  golden  cups  are  set, 
To  hold  their  brimming  fill  of  morning  dew, 

And  speak  to  man  of  God,  lest  he  forget 
The  lights  of  Eden,  and  the  tree  that  grew 

Within  the  walls,  where  the  four  rivers  met. 


141 


IN  NOVEMBER 

Oh,  Roses,  Red  Roses,  the  winds  are  a-wailing; 
In  the  halls  of  November  the  year  is  a-f ailing; 
The  summer  is  dead  and  the  autumn  lies  ailing. 

Ye  came  with  the  spring,  when  her  fingers  were  spinning 
The  green  robes  of  May;  now  the  leaves  are  a-thinning. 
Why  woo  ye  the  winter?  Why  wait  on  his  winning? 

Oh,  Bride  of  the  Summer,  list  not  to  his  suing. 
Turn  not  your  red  lips  to  his  white-lipped  undoing. 
'Tis  death,  not  a  bridal ;  a  rape,  not  a  wooing. 

•'Mtrf;  i 

The  lost  and  the  lovely  who  loved  ye,  are  sleeping. 
The  dead  leaves  in  torrents  above  them  are  sweeping. 
Go  doff  your  red  robes,  and  go  down  to  them  weeping. 


142 


THE  KING  IN   DARIEN 

Man  hath  clothed  him  with  the  lightning,  he  hath  shod 

his  feet  with  thunder ; 
Past  the  dream  of  Priest  or  Poet  still  his  steadfast  steps 

outran ; 
And  he  stands  upon  the  mountains  and  the  heights  are 

trodden  under 
In  a  shining  Way  of  Triumph,  for  the  Royalty  of  Man. 

He  hath  clipped  the  heavens  with  his  wings,  and  in  his 

winged  leaping 

Drags  a  tributary  ocean  in  a  leash  of  either  hand; 
Till  he  loose  them  from  their  tether  with  resistless  current 

sweeping, 

But  with  measured,  man-made  impulse  o'er  the  subju 
gated  land. 

Past  the  purple  tropic  headlands,  between  jeweled  tropic 

islands, 
From  the  lands  beyond  the  dawn,  the  lands  behind  the 

night,  they  come; 

And  the  tropic  jungles  echo  upward  to  the  tropic  high 
lands, 

With  the  thrilling  of  the  bugle  and  the  throbbing  of  the 
drum. 

They  will  enter   in  the   gateway   like  a   splendid  vision, 

weaving 

On  a  field  of  stainless  blue  their  changing,  iridescent 
gleams ; 

143 


In  a  Poet's  Dream  of  Beauty  never  went  such  fair  de 
ceiving 

From  the  shining  loom  of  Fancy,  through  the  Ivory 
Gate  of  Dreams. 

When  the  nations'  navies  enter,  with  their  silken  banners 

streaming, 
One,  the  blue-eyed  English  boy,  shall  enter  first,  and  go 

before 

In  his  Poet  Bucentaur  and  bear  the  golden  circle  gleaming, 
For  the  bridal  of  the  waters,  as  the  warrior  princes  bore. 

As  the  scattered  stars  of  heaven  and  the  clustered  con 
stellations 
Wan  and  wither,  pale  and  vanish,  at  the  coming  of  the 

sun, 
He  shall  shine  serenely  o'er  ye ;  in  your  pathway  for  the 

nations, 

Ye  have  cleft  the  hills  asunder,  in  a  Royal  Road  for 
One. 

For  we  tell  you,  we,  who  Know,  to  ye,  perchance,  that 

shall  not  know  it, 
That  the  Master  of  the   spot  hath   entered  here  from 

lands  afar; 
Hath  aforetime  scrawled  above  ye  the  Crowned  Rubric 

of  the  Poet, 

— Taken  seizin  of  his  Kingdom — and  hath  sealed  it  with 
a  star. 


144 


In  his  Elder  Right  of  Royalty,  he  enters  to  inherit, 

Crowned  beyond  the  grosser  vision  of  the  purblind  eyes 

of  men. 
O'er  your  tributary  earthly  realms,  the  Kingdom  of  the 

Spirit, 
Reigning  as  a  Poet  King,  "Upon  a  Peak  in  Darien." 


TO  THE  NEMOPHILA 

"BABY    BLUE    EYES" 

What  bird  across  the  walls  of  Eden  flew 
Above  thee  in  the  alien  land,  and  threw 
O'er  thee  his  shadow  of  celestial  blue? 

Or  else  from  bluer  skies  than  ours,  was  drawn 
— From  azure  meadows,  where  the  feet  of  Dawn 
Walked  golden  shod  in  the  dim  ages  gone — 

The  evanescent  azure  of  thine  eyes, 
That  man  might  dream  a  fairer  paradise, 
With  all  thy  blue  reflected  in  its  skies. 

145 


THE   PRODIGAL   DAUGHTERS 

Why,  Mono  and  Inyo !     The  news  has  surprised  me ! 

You  are  blood  of  my  blood,  you  are  flesh  of  my  flesh, 
Yet  your  message  has  come,  and  its  words  have  apprised 
me 

That  two  of  my  daughters  have  turned  out  "Secesh." 
I  have  loved  you  sincerely,  although  you're  not  comely 

Like  dear  Santa  Clara,  the  flower  of  you  all. 
But  my  dwelling  is  large,  there's  a  home  for  the  homely, 

With  bed  in  the  chamber  and  board  in  the  hall. 

Think  not  that  the  fires  of  your  mother's  affection 

Are  quenched  by  the  flaws  of  your  face  or  your  frame. 
For  your  angular  features  and  sallow  complexion 

Believe  me,  my  dears,  cut  no  ice  in  its  flame. 
If  my  daughters  are  many,  my  bosom  is  ample, 

And  in  it  for  each  of  you,  mother  love  thrills, 
With  a  strength  that  avails  to  its  need,  for  example 

It  crosses  wide  deserts  and  overtops  hills. 

Stuff  and  nonsense !     Let's  hear  no  more  talk  of  eloping 

With  the  silver  mine  owner  from  over  the  way. 
A  truce  to  your  folly !     An  end  to  your  hoping ! 

Return  to  your  duty,  untrounced,  while  you  may. 
And,  besides,  I  am  really  quite  sure  that  you  miscount 

His  fortune,  for  know,  silly  girls  that  you  are, 
The  Silver  he  brags  of  is  largely  at  discount, 

And  Mr.  Nevada,  himself,  below  par. 


146 


Your  friend,  whom  I  also  know  well,  Mrs.  Austin, 

Who  loves  you  quite  dearly,  and  well  knows  your  needs, 
I've  not  heard  from  her  yet,  but  I'm  sure  she's  quite  lost  in 

Amazement,  to  hear  of  your  frolicsome  deeds. 
And  now,  my  dear  girls,  no  vexatious  beseeching, 

Return  to  your  mother  who  loves  you,  and  know 
Let  you  reach  where  you  will,  yet  my  will  is  o'er  reaching. 

No  go,  naughty  daughters !     No  go,  you  can't  go ! 


THE   UNIVERSAL   PRAYER 

Kind  Lord,  a  boon  we  crave, 

To  Thee  an  easy  task. 
It  is  not  much  we  have, 

Nor  is  it  much  we  ask. 

Grant  us  some  pleasant  spot 
(So  may  we  hope  to  thrive) 

Where  that  which  is,  is  not, 
And  two  and  two  make  five. 

This  will  suffice  our  need, 
Nor  do  we  ask  for  more. 

We  never  can  succeed 

Where  two  and  two  make  four. 

147 


ELECTRA 

Alas,  alas,  Electra!     Grown  less  fair; 

With  thy  disheveled  hair, 

Ghastly  and  livid  white, 

Writhing  in  tangled  agonies  of  light 

Upon  the  startled  bosom  of  the  night. 

Thou,  of  the  Sisters  Seven 

Who  shone  the  fairest  in  the  halls  of  heaven. 

To  thee  what  bitter  memories  remain 

Of  the  old  Dardan  plain ; 

Of  thy  ecstatic  joy, 

Thy  amorous  dalliance  with  the  princely  boy 

Within  the  walls  of  heaven  builded  Troy. 

Thou,  exiled  from  thy  place, 

Amidst  the  awful  heights  and  depths  of  space. 

Whence  comest  thou  to  vex  our  sight,  and  why? 

From  what  remoter  sky 

Immeasurably  far 

Beyond  the  circle  of  the  Sun  God's  car, 

Beyond  the  light  of  alien  sun  and  star, 

Comest  thou  to  us  again 

Presaging  evil  to  the  sons  of  men. 

The  fall  of  empires,  and  the  death  of  kings 

Ever  thy  presence  brings, 

From  thy  remotest  yore. 

Now,  NOW,  what  bringest  thou  from  that  dim  shore 

To  crown  thy  evil  most,  with  yet  a  more. 

Perchance,  the  cosmic  fire 

To  loose  the  burden  of  thy  Titan  sire. 


THE   BRIDAL 

Fill  up  his  cup  each  guest 

Let  it  brim  over. 
Ready  both  bride  and  feast. 

Tarries  the  lover. 
Why  is  my  lord  so  late? 

Why  does  he  tarry? 
Here  in  my  halls  I  wait 

Whom  he  would  marry. 
Long,  life  and  I  were  wed, 

Long  have  I  proved  him, 
Shared  with  him  board  and  bed. 

Never  I  loved  him. 
Life  is  a  sorry  jest 

All  the  world  over. 
He  I  wed  now  is  best, 

Faithfulest  lover. 
Hasten,  my  lord,  I  pray. 

Hasten  yet  faster. 
This  is  our  wedding  day, 

Lord,  Friend  and  Master. 
Narrow  the  bridal  bed; 

Satin  its  pillows; 
Satin  all  white  its  spread; 

White  lace  in  billows. 
Comes  my  lord's  tiring  maid 

Softly  a-creeping. 
Soft  are  her  fingers  laid 

On  the  bride  sleeping. 

149 


Up  from  the  bed  and  flee ! 

The  rite's  unnerving. 
Let  mortal  eyes  not  see 

His  servant's  serving. 
Up !  away  from  the  shock 

Ghastly,  inhuman. 
Lest,  maddened,  we  mock 

Christ,  born  of  woman. 
Still  bride  of  a  day, 

Soft  lie  your  cover. 
My  Lord  Death,  away ! 

The  bridal  is  over. 


150 


THE  CHOICE 

To  me  came  Phoebus,  ere  the  night  was  drawn 
From  purple  pomps  and  pageantries,  upon 
The  car  that  leads  the  triumph  of  the  dawn. 

Yea,  all  the  purple  chambers  of  the  night 
Blossomed  as  silver  lilies.     In  my  sight 
The  dark  conceived,  and  bore  a  Star  of  light. 

The  radiant  robes  of  his  divinity 

Enveloped  and  effaced  me;  unto  me 

He  spoke,  and  said :     "I  give  a  gift  to  thee. 

No  perfect  gift  I  give,  but  thou  shalt  lift 
Thy  soul  above,  and  see  through  flaw  and  rift 
The  giver's  soul  enshrined  within  the  gift." 

Of  old  in  Hellas  and  in  Rome  adored 

The  Sun  God  spoke,  and  at  my  feet  were  poured 

His  treasures  in  his  ancient  chambers  stored; 

Torrents  of  gems,  from  which  myself  might  choose, 
Dulling  the  rainbow  with  their  myriad  hues; 
Mine,  one  to  take,  and  many  to  refuse. 

And  last,  might  overleap  a  god's  desire, 
A  single  string  from  his  immortal  lyre, 
Throbbing  and  trembling  with  unearthly  fire. 


151 


My  soul  flashed  up  to  that  exalted  hour. 
I,  mortal,  chose  of  all  his  Golden  Shower 
A  God's  apocalypse  of  pain  and  power. 

"Lord,  cast  Thy  shadow  o'er  my  shadowed  ways; 
Nor  peace  I  ask,  nor  joy,  nor  length  of  days; 
Give  me  the  Gift  wherewith  to  sound  Thy  Praise." 


SONNET 

TO     THE    DEAR     PEOPLE. 

Good  Friends,  Sweet  Voices,  if  indeed  ye  be 

Sweet  voices,  or  good  friends,  I  pray  ye  hear. 

Lend  me  the  large  circumference  of  your  ear. 
Though  I  approach  your  regnant  sovereignty 
With  head  erect,  and  with  unbended  knee, 

Doubt  not  that  your  endearing  charms  are  dear 

To  me ;  for  what  but  love  should  bring  me  near  ? 
Pray  ye,  believe  me  of  your  charity. 

How  much  I  love  ye,  do  ye  seek  to  know, 
To  the  full  height  of  your  most  high  desire. 

(How  high  is  that,  if  your  desires  be  low?) 
Sooner  my  heart,  than  love  for  ye  shall  tire. 

(Tis  tired  now,  is  but  my  love  so  so.) 
So  help  me  Hermes !     God  and  Thief  and  Liar. 


152 


"MYSELF  AM   HELL" 

I  said,  "From  deeper  deeps,  my  plaint 

Cries  to  an  empty  shrine. 
So  I  to  ease  my  grief  will  paint 

A  deeper  grief  than  mine." 

I  might  not  find  a  grief  more  deep 

On  earth;  so  it  befell 
I,  mortal,  sought  the  forlorn  steep 

Whence  souls  go  down  to  hell. 

The  gates  which  swing  not  back  again 

I  freely  entered  in. 
For,  lo !  the  countersign  was  Pain  ; 

The  key  thereof  was  Sin. 

The  wrath  of  God,  in  wanton  strength, 

O'er  all  the  murky  skies, 
Outstretched  eternity  in  length 

Ere  yet  hell  knew  sunrise. 

I  saw  the  seas  of  fire  that  seethe 
With  waves  of  flame,  that  tossed 

From  white  hot  molten  deeps  beneath 
The  spirits  of  the  lost. 

And  one,  from  out  that  weltering  storm, 
Who  came  my  steps  to  meet; 

Flame  dripped  like  water  from  his  form, 
And  ran  about  his  feet. 

153 


He  placed  his  fingers  on  my  brow; 

They  scorched  me  to  the  bone. 
Oh,  Hell's  Red  Dripping  Crown !     I  vow 

Those  fingers  were  my  own. 

I,  that  sad  ghost  of  fiery  seas, 
In  whom  mine  eyes  might  trace 

Myself,  in  all  the  agonies 
Of  that  distorted  face. 

Mine,  mine,  the  God  imploring  eyes ; 

Mine,  cracked  and  bleeding  lips; 
Mine,  hands  that  tore  at  empty  skies 

With  flaming  finger  tips. 

Oh,  Christ,  the  Pitiful !     But  then 

Some  ray  of  morning  broke 
From  my  remembered  skies  again ; 

It  touched  me,  and  I  woke. 

Yet  still,  when  dawn  proclaimed  her  rule, 

Livid  upon  my  face 
That  Mark,  not  all  the  winds  can  cool, 

Nor  all  the  seas  erase. 

Still  on  my  brow  that  monstrous  birth 

Begot  of  Pain  and  Sin. 
A  dream?     Why,  so,  perchance,  the  earth, 

The  heavens,  and  all  therein. 


154 


WHOLESALE   ONLY 

Three  Ancient  Ladies,  with  a  stock  complete, 

Have  flung  their  sign  out  in  a  modern  street; 

The  which,  "All  orders  filled  in  time  to  catch 

The  Lower  Roads,  with  neatness  and  dispatch." 

Their  windows  blossom  with  a  long  array 

Of  toys  to  please  a  sunlit  holiday; 

With  shining  folds  of  silver  paper  bound, 

With  golden  tinsel  and  red  ribbon  wound ; 

In  homeopathic  portions  made  to  spill 

The  smaller  purses  in  their  gaping  till ; 

All  duly  labeled;  "Joy"  and  "Love"  and  "Peace," 

"Honour"  and  "Wealth"  and  "Leisure"  and  "Heartsease." 

•'Open  for  business!"     But  so  grim  and  gaunt 

I  shrank  to  proffer  them  my  retail  want. 

Obsequious,  I  sought  her  listening  ear 

The  least  severest  of  the  all  severe. 

"Though  lean  my  purse,  God  wot,  no  woman  I. 

The  man  who  comes  to  price,  remains  to  buy. 

Joy  comes  too  high,  but  give  me,  if  you  please, 

An  ounce  of  Leisure,  and  some  small  Heartsease. 

On  that  high  shelf,  the  smallest  of  the  lot, 

Tied  with  red  ribbon  in  a  shining  knot." 

Thus  I  to  her.     A  smile  a  moment's  space 

Crackled  the  ancient  parchment  of  her  face. 

And  surely,  No !     But  surely,  Yes  !     I  think, 

Just  the  remote  suggestion  of  a  wink 

Half  lit  the  brooding  shadows  of  her  eye 

Like  a  red  flash  across  an  angry  sky. 


155 


She  clapped  her  hands;  the  shop  boy  came  in  haste 

"Life,"  mortals  call  him.     I,  with  grim  distaste 

And  black  disfavor,  met  the  smirking  smile 

With  which  he  oiled  his  creaking  tones  the  while. 

He  marshaled  forth  his  words  in  flying  ranks 

"Regrets"  tripped  up  the  nimble  heel  of  "Thanks." 

His  "Thanks"  light  fingered,  spread  deceiving  nets 

To  tangle  the  lame  feet  of  his  "Regrets." 

These  marked  down  bargains,  temptingly  displayed, 

Were  naught  but  the  "blank  cartridges  of  trade"; 

A  shining  emptiness,  to  catch  the  eye 

Of  the  chance  bargain  hunter,  passing  by. 

"Sold  out  of  gauds  like  these,  we  show  with  pride 

Our  Wholesale  Warehouse  on  the  other  side. 

These  puncheons  hold  our  Black  Wine  of  Despair, 

An  ancient  vintage.     Read  the  trade-mark  there 

Scorched  with  a  Flaming  Sword :    'Adam  and  Son, 

The  Eden  Vineyards,  Anno  Mundi  One.' 

For  this  black  cloth  we  have  a  great  demand 

A  staple  'tis  in  every  age  and  land. 

Our  Grief  A  No.  1,  our  special  pride, 

Is  warranted  all  wool  and  a  yard  wide. 

And  this  is  our  perennial  brand  of  Soap, 

For  Bubble  Blowing  none  compares  with  Hope. 

Our  stock  is  large,  the  favorite  of  our  toys, 

Beloved  by  all  the  larger  girls  and  boys." 

His  long,  lean  finger  pointing  here  and  there, 

With  eager  gestures  stabbed  the  wounded  air. 

And  he  so  wheedled  me  and  hypnotized, 

I  pawned  my  soul  to  him  I  most  despised. 


156 


In  short,  the  rogue  so  cozened  me,  I  bought 
The  things  I  wanted  least,  and  least  had  sought. 
A  plague  on  him  and  all  his  wares !     I  vow 
I  hold  no  further  commerce  with  him  now. 


SONNET 

TO    LIFE. 

What  God  so  cursed  me  that  I  took  to  wife 
— For  surely  some  mad  Boy  God  aimed  the  jest 
That  laid  the  ancient  wanton  on  my  breast — 
His  cast-off  concubine,  that  men  call  Life? 
Five  hath  she  borne  me — Fear,  Despair  and  Strife 
To  loot  my  scanty  stores  of  peace  and  rest ; 
And  black-browed  Hate  and  Scorn,  to  bring  as  guest 
Pain,  and  the  pang  of  his  red  dripping  knife. 
One  hell-bestowed,  and  five  myself  begot; 

Five  and  their  dam,  to  hang  with  foul  embrace 
And  poisoned  lips  that  stain,  a  scarlet  blot 

Or  livid  blotch  on  my  reluctant  face. 
I  am  hag-ridden  up  steep  heights,  God  wot. 
And  imp-spurred  downward,  in  a  devil's  race. 

157 


TO   THE  MEMORY   OF  JOHN   KEATS 

Lost  Pleiad  of  serener  skies 

Drawn  from  thy  milder  spheres, 

What  evil  influence  bid  thee  rise 
In  our  remoter  years? 

The  radiant  light  of  those  proud  eyes 

— The  echo  of  the  Dawn — 
They  should  have  waked  when  Grecian  skies 

Lit  the  young  Parthenon. 

They  should  have  waked  on  charmed  ground, 

In  some  enchanted  night. 
The  light  that  lit  them  drifted  round 

From  some  diviner  height. 

Those  passionate  lips  should  have  possessed 

Artemis'  haughty  mouth; 
And  taught  to  love  that  virgin  breast 

Thirsty  of  too  long  drought. 

Thy  name,  "in  water  writ,"  shall  live 

While  living  waters  run, 
And  while  the  gates  of  morning  give 

A  pathway  to  the  sun. 

Earth  claims  again  her  earth-born  earth. 

The  lesser  souls  flit  by. 
This  faded  Rose  of  Life  gave  birth 

To  some  new  Star  on  High. 


158 


OUR   LADY   OF   WELCOME 

Where  the  Earth  is  swept  backward,  defeated  by  the  rush 
of  the  sea  on  the  sands, 

Our  Lady  of  Welcome  sits  throned  on  the  uttermost  verge 
of  the  lands; 

She  cries  out  aloud  to  the  Nations,  and  beckons  with  wel 
coming  hands. 

She  has  walked  in  the  valley  of  shadows;  She  has  stood 

in  the  tumult  of  war 
Of  the  elements,   rebel  against  Her;   Her  children  were 

scattered  afar; 
But  the  Day  held  a  torch  to  Her  travail,  and  the  Night 

lit  defeat  with  a  star. 

She    has   trod   down   defeat    in    Her   pathway;    She   has 

entered  again  to  Her  Own; 
Her  children,  re-gathered,  establish  the  far-lying  rule  of 

Her  throne; 
And  the  winds  shout  the  echoes  to  heaven  of  Her  trumpets 

of  victory  blown. 

By  the   splendour   of   great   deeds   accomplished,   by    the 

pulses  of  pride  in  Her  breast, 
She  has  summoned  the  world  to  Her  Presence;  She  has 

bidden  the  East  as  a  guest; 
And  the  North  and  the  South  are  made  welcome  in  the 

halls  of  the  Queen  of  the  West. 

159 


By  the  sea,  led  in  leash  o'er  the  mountains  to  serve  as 

man's  slave  between  walls, 
By  the  miracle  working  of  God  through  the  hand  of  the 

Human,   She  calls; 
Let  the  lands   rise  in  haste  at  Her  bidding,  and   follow 

the  -sun  to  Her  Halls. 


SONNET 

PRESCRIBED     FOR     POETS     AND     INSCRIBED     TO     EDITORS. 

Of  withered  platitudes,  take  "quantum  suff," 

On  barren  plains,  by  stagnant  marshes  seen; 

(Beware  of  Fancies  poisoned  Evergreen;) 
Of  commonplace  and  cant,  throw  in  enough; 
Ten  parts  of  "rot"  and  twenty  drachms  of  "puff." 

This  mixed,  and  shaken  well  in  your  machine, 

Comes  out  the  "poetry,"  called  "magazine." 
And  take  it  ?  Heaven  forbid !  Go  sell  the  stuff. 

Yea,  go  and  sell  it;  ye  shall  win  thereby 
Your  thirty  silver  pieces.     Though  to  win 

Ye  pawn  some  shreds  of  honour;  though  on  high 
The  frightened  Muses  fly  before  your  sin; 

Though  Phcebus  winks  a  tear  from  either  eye, 
And  hides  his  pain  his  ancient  halls  within. 

160 


THE   THEFT   OF   WINTER 

IN     CALIFORNIA. 

A  lusty  boy,  not  here  grown  old, 

His  shining  hair  was  spun 
Of  the  fine  raveled  cloth  of  gold, 

Gift  of  our  Lord,  the  Sun. 

But,  lo,  what  madness  fills  his  veins, 

For  he  hath  drunken  full 
Of  brimming  flagons  of  the  rains 

In  the  House  Beautiful. 

And  he  hath  sought  the  fields  where  May 

Had  lain  her  down  to  rest; 
And  he  hath  reft  and  borne  away 

The  green  robe  from  her  breast. 

Her  robe  of  state !     The  impish  elf ! 

With  gold  flowers  overlaid, 
Wherein  to  prank  his  thievish  self 

For  his  mad  masquerade; 

Wherein,  through  all  his  sunlit  way 

His  boyish  limbs  are  swift; 
Wherein  he  brings  the  gift  of  May, 

And  shining  April's  gift. 

A  golden  deed.     A  gracious  thing. 
A  jeweled  gift,  to  draw 


161 


The  gilded  largesse  of  the  Spring 
From  Nature's  broken  law. 

But,  Mother  Nature  ill  bestead 

With  impotent  surprise, 
Tears  the  gray  tresses  of  her  head 

And  rubs  her  startled  eyes. 

The  wise  old  lady!     Let  her  change 

The  course  of  sun  and  star 
That  the  Greek  Kalends'  hands  arrange 

Our  winter's  calendar. 


162 


THE  PHILISTINE 

Aye,  tear  the  ancient  titles  down ;  let  nothing  more  remain 
That  caught  a  gleam  of  Splendour  from  the  Red  and  Gold 

of  Spain. 

Leave  not  a  rag  of  old  Romance  to  clothe  our  souls  there 
with. 
Let  Jones  Street  run  its  Saxon  course,  and  intersect  with 

Smith, 

That  of  the  meeting  may  be  born,  to  gild  the  name  anew, 
A  brand  new  street  for  philistines,  called  Smytheson 

Avenue. 
Why  weeps  the  gentle  philistine?     Why  doth  the  jingo 

rage 

At  glowing  ecstasies  of  light  upon  our  earlier  page? 
Spain  stamped  deep  impress  on  our  soil.     With  iron  hand 

she  pressed 
Her  rubric  writ  in  blood  and  tears  and  Splendour  on  our 

breast. 

Comes  now  the  modern  philistine  and  says  it  doesn't  suit; 
We'll  "pluck  it  from  our  bosoms  though  our  hearts  be  at 

the  root." 
So,  out  upon  the  impious  rogue  that  scouts  the  Gradgrind 

rule 

Of  cabbage  for  the  wise  man's  pot  but  roses  for  the  fool. 
Oh,  brothers  of  the  Holy  League,  the  Trust  is  ours,  to  pull 
About  our  heads  the  golden  dome  of  the  House  Beautiful. 
Tis  ours  to  clip  the  Graces'  robes  to  match  our  wit,  and 

bind 
The  Sun  God's  Soul  in  leaden  chains  of  our  Boeotian  mind. 


163 


Let  Fancy  fold  her  shining  wings,  and  veil  her  face  before 
The  sacred  soul-compelling  law  that  two  and  two  make 

four. 

Let  Beauty  hunted  from  the  earth,  shine  on  us  from  afar, 
Not  as  the  light  of  hearth  and  hall,  but  as  an  alien  star. 
And  I,  among  the  least  of  these,  am  come  to  lay  my  axe 
To  Fancy's  laurels,  grown  above  the  underbrush  of  Facts. 


SONNET 

"DEAD,  DEAD,  DEAD" 

Light  in  the  Night  and  on  the  purple  crest 

Of  her  exceeding  and  extremest  height. 

Night,  and  he  only  watching  with  the  Night; 
And  One  who  came  and  touched  him  on  the  breast, 
And  whispered,  "Peace";  the  countersign  was  "Rest." 

The  which  he  heard,  and  spoke,  with  face  grown  white, 

In  the  strong  stress  of  that  compelling  light 
That  lit  the  footsteps  of  the  God  confessed. 
Was  it  not  strange?     Oh,  it  was  passing  strange. 

Was  it  not  sweet?     Oh,  it  was  passing  sweet. 
Oh,  passing  strange  and  sweet  that  sudden  change. 

Life's  broken  fetters  fell  from  hands  and  feet 
Fiefed  in  the  far  off  lands  and  free  to  range 

Through  the  wide  spaces  of  the  All  Complete. 

164 


THE  WHITE   ROSE   AT   BERESFORD 

TO     E.     W. 

Came  up  the  long,  straight  avenue 
Our  Dread  and  Sovereign  Lord; 

His  fingers  bore  the  Hidden  Clew 
Beside  the  Naked  Sword. 

How  found  My  Lord  of  Death  the  way 

To  where  the  Morning  spills 
His  waves  in  rose  and  saffron  spray 

Upon  the  Beresf ord  hills  ? 

For,  oh,  the  skies  above  were  blue; 

The  hills  about  were  green; 
And  Spring  on  snowy  pinions  flew 

The  blue  and  green  between. 

He  came  and  lo,  his  coming  cast 

A  shadow  on  the  sky; 
And  the  trees  shivered  when  he  passed 

'As  though  a  wind  went  by. 

To  one  alone  he  bore  the  Rose, 
Who  took  with  face  grown  white, 

And  eyes  that  drew  the  eyelids  close 
On  that  compelling  light. 

The  years  above  his  brow  decreased; 
The  thin  lips  boyish  smiled; 


165 


And  the  torn  Mask  of  Life  released 
The  features  of  a  child. 

So,  childlike  to  Her  Mighty  Heart 
From  whence  a  child  he  came, 

He  rendered  back  to  Her  a  part 
Of  childhood's  dew  and  flame. 

Blow  white,  oh  Perfect  Rose  of  Peace 

He  wears  upon  his  breast, 
Through  the  sweet  valleys  of  Heartsease 

And  opened  gates  of  Rest. 


166 


TO  LINCOLN 

THE     OLD     SOUTH 

With  unrepentant  pride,  we  laid  The  Flag  away,  to  stir 
Some  holy  memories  in  us,  with  its  scent  of  lavender. 
And  rent,  and  racked,  and  robbed  by  war,  with  Southern 

pride  we  cast 

Above  our  present  nakedness,  the  purple  of  our  Past. 
We  shut  the  temples'  clanging  gates,  ourselves  had  flung 

apart 
To  welcome  franchised  Peace,  we  built  an  altar  in  our 

heart. 
Peace  scorned  of  devils !    Hell  begot,  that  hell  might  spit 

upon, 
And  spurn  with  loathing  from  her  gates,  to  vex  the  gates 

of  dawn. 
We  higher  held,  and  loved  the  more,  the  soldier  with  his 

sword, 
Than  traders,  parting  in  His  name,  the  raiment  of  the 

Lord. 
Peace  came  to  us  the  drab  of  War;  the  outraged  land 

appealed 
From  jugglers  in  the  market-place,  to  Caesars  of  the  field. 

AND     THE     NEW 

Peace!    Peace!    Above  the  jangling  worlds,  the  years  of 

Christ  increase 
With  twice  a  thousand  silver  tongues,  they  cry  to  us  for 

Peace. 
The  sacred  blood  was  sprinkled  on  the  lintel  of  our  door 

167 


That  bids  the  Angel  of  the  Sword  to  vex  the  land  no  more. 
We  make  our  ancient  wrongs  the  steps  whereon  our  souls 

shall  climb 
To   where   his   crowned   Eternity   looks   loving  down   on 

Time. 

Co-equal  in  our  Trinity,  our  High  and  Holy  Three, 
We  set  Our  Lincoln  in  a  shrine,  with  Washington  and 

Lee. 

And  by  the  Beauty  of  that  Life,  the  Glory  of  that  Name, 
That  born   with  us,   arose  with  you,  that  each   a   share 

might  claim. 
And  as  he  hears  us  overhead !    We  pledge  you   Peace 

again. 
A  righteous  Peace,  a  brother's  Peace,  the  Peace  of  equal 

men. 


168 


THE   SEEKERS 

SAN     FRANCISCO,     APRIL     18. 

The  grist  for  the  mills  of  the  Gods,  that  is  gathered  from 

near  and  from  far, 
With  rending  and  riving  of  atoms,  with  clashing  of  sun 

and  of  star, 
We  clutched  it  with  desperate  hands  from  the  Fates  and 

the  Furies  who  came 
With  the  sound  of  the  rending  of  gates   in  torrents  of 

wind-driven  flame. 
Though  the  earth  fled  away  from  our  feet  in  trembling 

and  loathing,  yet  still, 
Our  souls  from  the  depths  of  our  need  flashed  up  to  the 

heights  of  our  will. 
We  wrought  in  a  passionate  fury;  with  hands  that  were 

bleeding  we  wrought. 
Though  our  souls  sweat  blood  in  the  seeking,  we  sought, 

and  we  found  what  we  sought. 
We  strained  at  the  stone  over-weighty,   we  wrenched  at 

the  girder,  and  still 
Our  fingers  all  torn  and  defenseless  grew  mailed  in  the 

armor  of  will. 
The  pulse  of  our  heart  rang  alarm  at  the  sound  of  a  sigh 

or  a  moan; 
We  followed  a  veining  of  scarlet  that  trickled  o'er  mortar 

and  stone. 
We  drew  them  from  tangles  of  wreckage,  from  pits  of  the 

dark  where  they  lay, 

169 


From  nethermost  valleys  of  shadows  we  carried  them  into 

the  day. 
The  old  and  the  young  lay  together;  together  the  dying 

and  dead; 
The  white  hair  was   smirched  with  the  earth-stain;   the 

gold  hair  bedabbled  with  red. 
To  one  came  the  King  in  his  wrath,  and  the  dead  man 

stared  up  in  affright, 
Struck  full  in  the  face  with  the  blow,  and  buffeted  into 

the  night. 
To  one  came  the   King  in  his  love,  and  the  fingers  of 

healing  were  laid 
On  the  heart  and  the  brain  over-wrought,  and  he  smiled 

in  his  sleep,  unafraid. 
And  one  clinched  his  fist  in  his  anger ;  and  one  clasped  the 

Cross  to  her  breast; 
And  one  raised  his  hand  as  adjuring;  and  one  was  more 

fair  than  the  rest; 
He  lay  with  his  face  on  his  arm,  in  the  strong,  careless 

grace  of  the  boy, 
Struck  out  by  the  Gods  in  their  pastime,   and  broke  in 

their  wrath  as  a  toy; 
My  soul,  to  his  soul  that  was  passing,  by  the  Name  that 

the  lips  may  not  speak 
Adjured  him  with   august   compelling,   that  brought  the 

faint  flush  to  his  cheek; 
And  he  tarried  a  space  at  my  bidding  on  the  brink  of  the 

Great  Divide, 
And  he  looked  in  my  face,  and  his  eyes  smiled  into  my 

eyes,  and  he  died. 


170 


There  was  never  the  time  for  a  tear,  nor  ever  the  time 

for  a  sigh, 
But  my  face  grew  white  in  the  light  of  his  soul  as  it 

passed  me  by. 
And  the  hand  of  a  God  had  lingered  on  the  finer  clay  and 

the  soul, 
But  we  laid  him  the  one,  with  the  many,  and  a  part  of  the 

broken  whole. 
And  Fear  held  the  torch  to  our  seeking ;  we  sought  in 

morasses  of  dread 
For  the  bond  of  the  Human  between  us,  the  quick,  the 

dying  and  dead. 
And    nearer    from    ultimate   reaches,   the   wings   of   the 

tempest  were  drawn, 
And  leading  the  vanguard  of  rapine,  the  Fates  and  the 

Furies  swept  on. 


171 


HER   BIRTHDAY.     APRIL  18 

TO     SAN     FRANCISCO. 

Bring  we  to  the  Most  High  our  palms  of  praise; 

Comes  now  the  Day  of  days 

When  from  the  flame  and  smoke 

Round  that  proud  head,  that  bent  not  to  the  stroke, 

The  radiance  of  the  wider  morning  broke; 

The  High  and  Holy  Day 

When  Her  old  earth  and  heavens  passed  away. 

From  that  Medea's  Caldron,  where  she  cast 

The  all  of  all  Her  past, 

The  Sacred  Mother  drew 

In  splendour  trebled  twenty  times  that  grew 

The  golden  recompense  of  all  things  new, 

To  sit  Her  throne  again 

Crowned,  robed  and  sceptred  in  the  sight  of  men. 

Seek  through  the  fields  of  that  titanic  war 

Scarce  shall  ye  find  a  scar, 

Though  struggling  Titans  hurled 

From  the  dim  caverns  of  the  underworld 

Hill  upon  trembling  hill  top;  and  unfurled 

Upon  her  broken  towers 

The  flaming  flag  of  the  infernal  powers. 

Blow  the  shrill  bugle ;  let  the  drum  unroll 
Its  thunder  of  the  soul. 


172 


Let  all  our  banners  wave 

Our  thanks  to  Him  Who  took  away  and  gave. 

She,  who  was  dead,  hath  risen  from  the  grave; 

The  stone  is  rolled  away; 

Risen,  she  greets  the  light  of  the  new  day. 


SONNET 

TO     THE     COLUMBINE. 

Lo,  I  today  have  broken  holy  bread; 

My  trembling  lips  have  tasted  hallowed  wine: 

I,  mortal,  compassed  by  the  All  Divine 
With  higher  light,  in  higher  ways  was  led 
To  where  the  awful  Sacrament  was  spread ; 

God  and  I  only,  in  a  hidden  shrine 

Wherein,  like  swinging  lamps,  the  columbine 
Lit  all  the  shadows  with  its  flowers  of  red. 

I,  heritor  of  bud  and  flower  and  leaf, 
I,  free  and  fiefed  in  His  enchanted  wood, 

Knelt  to  receive  His  accolade  of  Grief; 
Bestowed  on  purple  peaks  of  Solitude; 

Wherewith  the  Poet  holds  from  God  his  fief, 
Whereof  God's  seal  proclaims  his  title  good. 


173 


THE   IMPREGNABLE  CASTLE 

In  yonder  frowning  walls  tonight 
The  knights  their  revels  keep. 

Between  me  and  the  giddy  height, 
The  castle  moat  is  deep. 

And  who  am  I,  a  wandering  knight, 
To  dare  that  haughty  steep? 

From  mine  own  castle  of  Romance 

I,  disinherited, 
Despoiled  of  all  but  sword  and  lance, 

In  alien  ways  am  led, 
Till,  of  mine  own  inheritance, 

The  times  be  brought  to  bed. 

No  silken  gage  of  love  is  bound 

About  my  sable  crest, 
But  antique  loyalty  hath  found 

A  dwelling  in  my  breast. 
I  couch  my  lance  for  Gods  discrowned, 

And  princes  dispossessed. 

God  wot,  my  arm  is  not  less  strong, 

My  lance  is  not  less  bright 
Than  theirs,  the  fortune-favored  throng, 

That  feasts  within  tonight, 
Where  I  among  my  peers  belong 

Of  mine  own  knightly  right. 


174 


THE  THREE  AT   STANFORD 

Tread  ye  with  reverent  feet,  for  Here  is  God; 

Here,  where  The  Three  have  trod, 

Father,  Mother,  and  Son. 

Doubt  not  that  to  This  Three,  the  Three  in  One 

Gave  the  enduring  palms  of  victory  won; 

In  the  high  heavens  to  wave, 

But  deeply  rooted  in  an  earthly  grave. 

Here  where  their  earthly  shadows  unsufficed 

In  very  truth  is  Christ. 

Through  their  Gethsemane, 

Up  the  steep  summits  of  their  Calvary, 

One,  Who  had  passed  before  them,  led  The  Three. 

His  Strength  Divine  sustained 

His  Human  Brothers,  tear  and  travel-stained. 

This  is  His  High  and  Holy  House  that  stands 

Not  built  alone  with  hands; 

Divinely  Human  Love 

Laid  the  deep  stone  and  reared  the  arch  above, 

Man's  Immortality  of  Love  to  prove. 

Within  this  Holy  Shrine 

The  Human  reaches  to  the  All  Divine. 

Oh,  Childless  Givers  of  the  Gift,  to  ye 

What  shall  our  giving  be? 

Be  this  the  gift  we  bring 

To  reach  them  in  the  heavens  on  swift  wing: 

As  the  lark  soaring,  as  the  lark  to  sing, 

Cry  we  with  eyes  grown  dim 

Mother  or  Father  unto  Her  or  Him. 


TO    MRS.    N.    C.    P. 

Thou,  who  from  old  with  gentle  fingers  drew 

Our  All  within  thy  touch, 
Thou,  chosen  ONE,  of  all  our  chosen  Few, 

So  few,  but,  oh,  so  MUCH  ! 

Of  all  we  were,  of  all  we  are,  a  part, 

Distance  may  not  divide ; 
Within  the  fairy  circle  of  the  Heart 

Thou  standest  at  our  side. 

Thou  hast  shone  on  us  with  a  light  so  clear 

The  years  may  not  erase; 
Nay,  rather  doth  each  swift  recurring  year 

Make  dearer  still  thy  face. 

With  thee,  on  golden  heights  of  long  ago, 

Our  gold  of  Life  was  spent; 
Be  thou  beside  us  in  the  deeps  we  go, 

As  on  the  heights  we  went. 


176 


"THE    REGIONS    WHICH    ARE    HOLY    LAND" 

W.     T.      P. 

Friend  whom  God  loved,  I  bear  in  mind 
What  time  we  left  the  world  behind, 
The  little  noisy  world  we  trod, 
For  the  Deep  Silences  of  God, 
And  all  the  gracious  strength  that  fills 
The  circle  of  the  gracious  hills. 
The  silvery  veil  was  rent  in  two 
That  hides  the  face  of  Ocean  View, 
Pierced  by  the  spears  of  Day,  and  flung 
On  rock  and  roof  and  tree  it  hung; 
And  wider  waxed  and  greater  grew 
The  great  gold  jewel  in  the  blue; 
To  thee  a  weighed  and  measured  sun, 
But  unto  me  the  Radiant  One. 
Oh,  was  it  thine,  and  was  it  mine, 
That  wildly  sweet,  delirious  wine 
That  thou  and  I  a  moment  quaffed, 
And  pledged  each  other  in,  and  laughed, 
Laughed  that  the  world  should  be  so  fair 
To  the  last  peaks  of  Everywhere; 
Laughed  that  our  footsteps  trod  upon 
The  gold  f ringed-curtains  of  the  Dawn; 
Laughed,  that  we  held  within  our  hands 
The  key  of  our  enchanted  lands, 
The  gold  clew  to  the  golden  maze 
Of  our  unwonted  holidays. 


177 


And  high  above  our  heads  unfurled 

On  the  blue  heights  above  the  world, 

Yon  Heavens  Highway  Spirit  trod 

The  White  Flag  of  the  Truce  of  God. 

A  Truce !     A  Truce  !     God's  hour  of  Peace, 

That  bids  the  lesser  jangling  cease. 

That  with  the  Silence  of  His  Voice 

Stills  the  earth's  tumult  and  her  noise ; 

That  flings  a  royal  canopy 

Above  the  serf,  and  sets  him  free. 

And  all  the  blue  of  all  the  skies, 

And  all  the  tender  green  that  lies 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  May, 

And  all  the  golden  halls  of  Day, 

And  all  the  silver  lamps  that  shine 

In  Night's  blue  dome,  were  thine  and  mine. 

The  larger  air,  the  fuller  breath, 

Were  free  as  life,  were  free  as  death. 

And  we  were  free;  oh,  we  were  free, 

If  lost  in  God's  immensity. 

Not  from  a  miser's  fingers  doled, 

But  bounteous  double  hands  of  gold, 

So  Youth  and  Hope  together  spent 

Their  largesse  on  the  way  we  went. 

Old  for  our  land;  a  hundred  years 

Has  flowed  the  tide  of  hopes  and  fears, 

The  tide  of  joy  and  grief  has  flowed 

And  ebbed  along  the  Mission  Road, 

That  thin  gold  thread,  on  which  is  strung, 

Unknown,  unhonoured  and  unsung, 


178 


The  jewels  of  futurity, 

Seed  pearls  of  cities  yet  to  be. 

Strange,  is  it  not,  that  thou  shouldst  keep 

Thy  Heaven  guarded  Halls  of  Sleep, 

Where  Silence  broods  with  brows  august, 

And  lips  that  speak  not  o'er  her  Trust. 

Where  Sorrow,  sad-browed  sentinel, 

Cries  with  unwilling  voice,  "All's  Well." 

Where  thou  and  I  upon  a  day 

inimitably  far  away, 

Rode  full  tilt  in  the  laughing  strife 

Across  the  captured  walls  of  Life. 

Strange,  is  it  not?     Perchance,  we  trod 

Upon  that  unclaimed  field  of  God, 

Where  now  the  wise  in  grief  may  see 

The  seed  bed  of  Eternity, 

— Wet  with  a  rain  of  tears — that  yields 

The  flowers  for  th'  Elysian  fields. 

The  robes  of  Night  are  closer  drawn 

About  the  breast  of  Cypress  Lawn, 

And  Day,  with  halting  step,  invades 

The  sacred  silence  of  the  shades 

That  the  tall  gum  trees  rise  to  make 

Wider  and  deeper,  for  thy  sake. 

For  thee,  whose  boyish  fingers  drew 

A  patch  of  green,  a  strip  of  blue, 

Wherewith  to  cover  up  thy  breast 

In  the  dim  chambers  of  thy  rest. 

But  in  our  wise  unwisdom,  we 

Passed  heedless  o'er  the  graves  to  be. 


179 


Thanks  to  the  kindly  hand  that  locks 
Foreknowledge  in  Pandora's  box. 
I  thank  my  Gods  that  I  may  find 
Them  in  free  spaces,  unconfined, 
Not  clipped  within  a  man-made  house 
Ascends  the  homage  of  my  vows, 
To  rise  on  futile  wings  and  fall 
With  broken  heart  against  a  wall. 
I  thank  Them  that  my  prayers  may  rise 
On  lesser  wings,  to  nearer  skies, 
Confined  by  yonder  shining  dome 
About  the  altar  fires  of  Home; 
Nor  lost  in  yonder  vast  profound 
Of  blackness,  flame  encircled  round, 
That  Ancient  Void,  wherein  we  poured 
To  some  Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord, 
Measures  of  ecstasies  and  dole, 
First  fruits  of  body  and  of  soul. 
I  thank  my  Gods  that  they  are  Here 
About  me,  imminently  near. 
A  God  to  vivify  and  fill 
The  mountain  and  the  mountain  rill ; 
To  ride  upon  the  south  wind  warm, 
To  loose  or  leash  the  thunder  storm; 
To  light  and  trim  the  altar  fires 
Of  Night  on  her  perpetual  pyres; 
To  brush  the  envious  clouds  away 
That  bar  the  access  of  the  day; 
To  stoop  from  plentitude  of  power, 
To  paint  or  pluck  a  wayside  flower. 

180 


Ah !    Friend  of  mine,  thou  couldst  not  hear 

The  music  patent  to  my  ear, 

The  Cosmic  music,  wild  and  sweet, 

Above  the  horses'  ringing  feet. 

Thine  was  the  morning's  radiant  wine, 

The  rainbow  o'er  our  path  was  thine. 

These  burnt  out  Fires  of  God  were  mine. 

Tis  dear  to  me,  the  way  we  went, 

For  Grief  and  Joy  alike  have  spent 

Their  substance  on  it;  every  mile 

Is  bounded  by  a  tear  or  smile ; 

A  shining  and  a  Sacred  Way 

From  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay, 

To  the  white  walls  of  San  Jose. 

We  passed  through  all  the  gracious  green, 

Flawed  with  white  villages  between, 

And  came  where  San  Mateo  stood 

A  Dryad  in  a  charmed  wood; 

Unvexed  by  the  woodsman's  strokes, 

Her  presence  haunts  her  native  oaks. 

She  turns  toward  the  west  and  calls 

The  Oread  of  the  mountain  walls, 

And  sees  dim-eyed,  as  in  a  dream, 

The  Naiad  of  her  vanished  stream. 

Ah,  here  where  Dignity  and  Ease 

May  rest  care  free  beneath  the  trees, 

Ah,  here  should  Beauty  unconfined 

Reign  over  heart  and  soul  and  mind. 

An  Attic  Princess  exiled  far, 

'Tis  here  should  rest  her  wandering  car; 


181 


Here  fiefed  again,  and  repossessed 
Of  her  old  East,  in  our  new  West. 
"We  passed  and  came  where  Belmont  keeps 
Her  halls  upon  her  wooded  steeps, 
That  rise,  advance,  divide,  or  meet, 
And  fling  their  green  waves  at  her  feet. 
Or  on  some  higher  hill  tossed  high 
Break  in  green  spray  against  the  sky. 
I  thank  the  Gracious  Hand  that  spills 
The  shining  torrent  of  the  hills. 
Not  David  with  desire  above 
Mine  own,  encompassed  them  with  love. 
My  feet  have  ever  brushed  them  nigh, 
Mine  eyes  shall  see  them  though  I  die. 
Hark !    From  the  distance  Beresford  calls 
To  Belmont,  o'er  the  mountain  walls. 
And  the  wind  hears  the  call,  and  weaves 
The  answering  whisper  of  green  leaves; 
Earth's  sweet  and  sacred  melodies 
Sung  on  the  hill  tops  by  the  trees, 
And  echoed  by  the  birds  and  bees. 
And  I  rejoice  that  I  may  reach 
These  thin  high  subtleties  of  speech 
Of  the  Great  Mother,  reconciled 
In  so  far,  to  her  wayward  child. 
I,  set  within  such  straitened  round, 
By  such  strong  links  of  habit  bound, 
The  golden  daily  links,  that  close 
About  a  moonbeam,  or  a  rose, 
Forbid  by  all  my  past  to  roam 


182 


Beyond  the  Covenant  of  Home, 

Whose  hands  have  stayed  the  sacred  Ark 

Deep  graven  with  my  finger's  mark. 

All  this,  about  me  and  mine  own, 

I  set  above  me  on  a  throne, 

And  kneel  before,  and  throw  above 

My  royal  canopy  of  Love. 

Our  shadows  withered  by  the  sun 

Marked  his  increasing  summits  won. 

They  scorched  and  shriveled  in  his  flame, 

And  vanished  from  us  as  we  came 

Where  Redwood  tells  the  future  gains 

Of  her  wide  heritage  of  plains; 

As  the  seas  level,  as  the  seas 

Swept  into  ripples  by  the  breeze, 

And  archipelagoed  by  trees, 

Majestic  spreading  oaks,  that  rise 

Like  island  walls  against  the  skies. 

To  him,  whose  soul  is  tuned  aright, 

What  melodies  of  sound — and  sight; 

What  fairy  tapestries  are  wove 

Of  the  moonbeams  in  yonder  grove. 

What  white  limbs  flash  when  Dryads  fling 

From  them  their  leafy  covering. 

All  this  so  beautiful,  alas ! 

All  These  so  beautiful,  must  pass 

When  Vesta  lights  her  altar  fires 

To  be  their  sacrificial  pyres, 

And  stronger  Lares  of  the  hearth 

Cast  out  the  Gods  of  outer  earth. 


183 


Slowly  the  Sun  God's  chariot  wheeled 

Down  the  long,  westward  sloping  field; 

We  followed  in  his  steps  and  came 

Where  Beauty  rises,  as  a  flame 

Flung  round  th'  Unutterable  Name. 

So  shines  her  soul  where  Woodside  fills 

A  green  nook,  riven  from  the  hills. 

From  whence  a  shining  valley  keeps 

Step  with  its  guardian  mountain  steeps. 

Men  call  it  Portola ;  to  me 

It  is  my  fields  of  Arcadie. 

Ah,  here  were  dignity  and  peace; 

The  larger  statured  soul's  increase; 

Surcease  from  sordid  loss  and  gain 

That  leave  a  scar,  or  leave  a  stain. 

Here  Life,  with  cleaner  hands,  might  bring 

To  Death  a  nobler  offering. 

Here  might  my  soul's  abiding  place 

Arise  in  antique  Attic  grace 

Of  ivory  moonbeams,  and  thereon 

A  rose  carved  by  the  hands  of  Dawn. 

A  pillar  from  the  purple  halls 

Of  Night,  torn  from  the  higher  walls, 

Whose  lonely  summits  catch  from  far 

The  silver  gleaming  of  the  star, 

A  block  from  his  triumphal  way 

Gold  glowing  from  the  feet  of  Day. 

A  window  free  to  all  the  stars, 

A  door  latched  by  the  morning's  bars. 

And  shining  pinnacles  above 


184 


The  seven-hued  web  that  Iris  wove. 

A  pathway  to  the  Star  of  Hope, 

Long  alien  to  my  horoscope. 

Ah,  here  indeed,  if  I  am  I, 

As  I  was  I  in  years  gone  by, 

I,  who  with  boyish  folly  shod, 

Yet  held  the  Shining  Clew  of  God, 

Here  drifting  down  serener  streams 

Of  time,  upon  my  bark  of  dreams, 

Whose  purple  sails  and  ivory  prow 

Flashed  from  the  tumult  of  my  brow, 

Here  I  unhappy,  even  I, 

Might  proffer  These  above  the  sky; 

Above  the  sky,  but  not  above 

My  antique  loyalty  and  love, 

Lustrous  and  held  above  the  strife 

My  Iridescent  Pearl  of  Life. 

We  came  to  where  the  cross  roads  meet 

And  part  beside  the  mountain's  feet. 

And  one  road  in  contentment  yields 

Its  life  to  bound  the  level  fields, 

And  from  their  lesser  summit  gains 

The  lesser  guerdon  of  the  plains. 

And  one  with  higher  purpose  thrills 

To  curb  the  hot  pride  of  the  hills, 

And  sets  its  patient,  stubborn  length 

Against  th'  imperious  mountain's  strength. 

Here  is  a  spot  of  Holy  Ground; 

The  roads  encompass  it  around, 

Three  pine  trees  from  its  bosom  rise 


185 


To  search  the  secrets  of  the  skies; 

They  speak  in  whispers  when  the  wind 

Cuts  through  the  trees,  and  leaves  are  thinned, 

To  two  majestic  oaks,  that  stand 

Across  the  road  on  either  hand. 

And  here  of  old  a  willow  stood, 

An  alien  in  the  native  wood. 

Oh,  Heart !     Of  all  supreme  desire, 

Oh,  Soul !     With  white  wings  in  the  mire, 

Oh  God !     The  Many  Voiced,  Who  spoke 

A  Threat  and  promise  when  I  woke, 

If  dearer  be,  where  all  is  dear, 

With  love  exceeding,  it  is  Here. 

The  inner  Holies,  wherein  stands 

The  Altar  of  the  Holy  Lands, 

Wherefrom  I  shall  not  take  again 

The  Sacrament  of  Joy  or  Pain. 

Though  here  again  my  steps  drew  nigh, 

Not  I,  but  the  sad  ghost  of  I ; 

Ghost  of  a  shadow,  wanned  and  thinned, 

And  whipped  upon  the  wanton  wind, 

Would  throw  itself  before,  and  clutch 

The  Past  with  a  despairing  touch. 

Light  laughter  dashed  its  sparkling  foam 

Towards  the  august  purple  dome 

That  bent  above,  and  seemed  to  chide 

With  its  solemnity  star  eyed, 

This  spray  upon  the  waves  of  speech 

That  rippled  on  our  rainbowed  beach, 

Which,  we  unknowing,  was  the  shore 


186 


That  guards  the  shrine  of  Nevermore. 
From  hearts  flung  open  wide,  we  spoke, 
•Our  words  fantastic  as  the  smoke 
That  from  the  fading  fires  beneath 
Ascended  in  a  wind  tossed  wreath. 
Light  fancies,  as  might  please  the  ear 
Of  Faun  or  Oread  listening  near; 
Flotsam  and  jetsam,  wayward  flung, 
From  Pagan  heart  and  lawless  tongue. 
I,  Pagan  of  a  type  antique, 
And  thou  half  savage  and  half  Greek ; 
Drunk  with  Delight  and  crowned  with  Joy, 
In  the  divine  right  of  the  boy. 
It  pleased  me  well  to  win  such  grace, 
Though  but  a  white-winged  moment's  space, 
To  mix  my  deeper  soul's  alloy 
With  the  bright  heart's  gold  of  the  boy ; 
And  drawn  from  my  forbidden  heights, 
To  warm  my  heart  at  the  twin  lights 
That  flashed  and  sparkled  from  the  sheath 
Of  the  brown  velvet  underneath. 
Oh,  burnt  out  marvel  of  the  eyes 
That  watched  with  me — in  Paradise, 
Through  the  white  glamour  of  a  night 
Drenched  in  star  shining  and  moonlight; 
In  what  fair  heavens  was  relumed 
The  splendour  that  the  God  resumed, 
The  light  which  might  not  pass  away, 
Though  thou  art  dust  beneath  the  clay. 
Sleep  laid  his  finger  on  thy  lips ; 


187 


Sleep  touched  thy  brown  eyes  to  eclipse 

And  that  which  was  in  essence  Thou 

Vanished  from  lip  and  eye  and  brow, 

And  left  me  lonely  in  the  night, 

God  and  myself  and  my  soul's  light. 

And  a  wind  whispered  to  the  trees 

The  secret  of  old  melodies. 

The  silence  of  the  forest  stirred 

My  soul  with  a  forgotten  word, 

That  fluttered  on  elusive  wing, 

That  circled  round  my  brow,  to  bring 

Increasing  memories,  dim  but  vast, 

Of  us  in  our  remoter  past. 

And  in  this  place  and  on  this  night 

I  won  of  my  withheld  birthright 

Some  little  part,  a  golden  page 

Torn  glowing  from  a  Golden  Age. 


The  hill  slopes  eastward,  that  the  Sun 

May  linger  ere  his  heights  be  won, 

And  lingering,  turn  adoringly 

To  the  best  sight  his  eyes  may  see, 

The  Perfect  Pearl  of  Attic  Art, 

God's  soul  and  Man's  in  equal  part. 

Man  dreamed  a  pearl,  the  pearl  he  wrought 

With  All  the  Gods  behind  the  thought. 

So  fair !     Its  counterpart  might  rise 

On  their  Olympus  o'er  the  skies, 

Wherein  the  Sun  God  and  the  Nine 


188 


Might  claim,  with  jealousy  divine, 

A  portion  of  Athene's  shrine. 

And  thou  and  I,  upon  the  rim 

Of  that  green  hill  top,  stood  with  Him ; 

And  saw,  perchance  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

The  rosy  lipped  caress  of  Dawn 

Adoringly  and  slow  withdrawn, 

Pressed  on  the  new-born  Parthenon. 

We  stood  upon  a  turf  inlaid 

With  tangled  breadths  of  light  and  shade. 

And  we  were  Greek,  and  Greece  was  Greece 

In  her  fair  prime  and  prime's  increase. 


The  vision  vanished  from  my  eyes 
Left  staring  at  the  midnight  skies. 
I  watched  the  patient  stars  grow  dim 
And  pass  beyond  the  heaven's  rim; 
They  hung  a  moment  on  the  crest 
Of  the  black  mountains  in  the  west, 
Upon  the  redwoods  branches  tossed 
They  signaled  to  me,  and  were  lost. 
The  forest  stirred  with  vague  unrest, 
And  an  old  memory  in  my  breast. 
I  hushed  my  heart  beneath  the  shade 
To  hear  the  wood  Gods  in  the  glade ; 
I  leaned  my  soul  with  listening  ear 
An  antique  melody  to  hear 
I  heard  of  yore  where  rivers  ran 
Through  reedy  vales  Arcadian, 

189 


The  wild  sweet  syrinx  pipes  of  Pan. 
And  at  the  old  remembered  chords 
My  thoughts  flashed  from  me  into  words ; 
Slipped  from  the  mind's  leash,  and  outran 
Beyond  the  measure  of  my  plan, 


A   PRAYER   UNTO   THE   GREAT   GOD   PAN. 

Oh,  where  art  Thou,  on  yonder  charmed  mountains, 

From  whence  enchanted  fountains 

Slip  through  the  tangled  brake, 

'Neath  the  tall  redwoods'  plumed  heads  to  slake 

Their  deeper  thirst  at  yonder  shining  lake — 

Here  dost  thou  sit  and  call 

To  the  white  Naiad  of  the  waterfall? 

Clothed  in  the  meshes  of  her  golden  hair 

Is  she  not  passing  fair, 

And  wonderfully  white, 

Seen  in  the  ebon  chambers  of  the  night? 

Beats  not  thy  God's  heart  quicker  at  the  sight 

Of  that  fair  body,  seen 

A  gleam  of  white  amidst  the  living  green  ? 

Or  dost  thou  rather  sit  alone,  and  brood 

In  some  far  solitude, 

Of  all  thy  lands  that  lie 

In  field  and  forest  marsh  and  mountain  high 

Far  flung  to  the  far  edges  of  the  sky  ? 


190 


Here  dost  thou  think  of  Her 

While  the  soft  sighing  winds  of  memory  stir? 

Still  dost  thou  see  within  thy  fierce  embrace 

That  fair  and  frightened  face, 

Still  do  thine  arms  enfold 

The  roses  and  the  ivory  and  gold 

Of  that  fair  form  within  thy  wanton  hold, 

That  left  thee  but  a  reed 

To  serve  the  heights  and  depths  of  a  God's  need? 

Yet  doth  her  immortality  of  gain 

Rise  o'er  the  loss  and  pain ; 

Her  weak  and  woman's  heart 

Become  th'  immortal  instrument  of  Art, 

Of  the  wide  Universe  of  Sound  a  part 

Throbs  on  thy  mountains,  lingers  'neath  thy  trees, 

Soul-stirring  and  heart-breaking  melodies. 

Star  shining  and  moonlight  upon  thy  brow, 

Art  thou  not  near  us  now, 

Now  while  the  earth  receives 

Artemis'  golden-feathered  shafts,  and  weaves 

Them  with  the  benediction  of  green  leaves; 

A  tapestry  to  fall 

In  green  and  gold  upon  thy  palace  wall? 

Lo  !  thou  art  near  to  me,  for  I  am  Greek, 
Moulded  in  lines  antique; 
Greek,  when  the  perfect  flower 


191 


Of  Greece  blew  whitest  in  a  golden  hour, 
Whereof  the  scent  remains  to  us  for  dower ; 
Crushed  'neath  the  ages'  feet, 
But  still  immortally  and  wildly  sweet. 

And  here  is  Greece,  and  here  is  Arcadie, 

Now,  here,  about  us  three, 

Thou  and  the  boy  and  I, 

We,  who  lie  here,  and  thou,  who  standest  by, 

So  near  that  thou  mightst  touch  us  where  we  lie, 

Now,  while  the  forest  grieves 

With  an  old  secret  whispered  by  the  leaves. 

Now  hath  he  pledged  and  given  awhile  to  keep 

His  boyish  soul  to  Sleep ; 

He  lies  with  his  fair  face 

Upon  his  arm,  in  strong,  unconscious  grace. 

I  may  not  seek  his  soul's  abiding  place, 

Who  have  no  clew  to  keep 

Step  with  him  in  his  labyrinths  of  sleep. 

Thou,  wert  thou  Heracles,  then  he  to  thee 

Should  the  young  Hylas  be ; 

Wert  thou  the  God  of  Light, 

Thou  shouldst  stoop  down  from  an  adoring  height 

To  bear  him  past  the  jealous  West  Wind's  might, 

Lest  Hyacinthus  slain 

Repurple  earth  with  his  sweet  flowers  of  pain. 

Now  he  is  far  from  me,  and  thou  art  near, 
A  God  whom  not  I  fear; 

192 


I,  too,  am  earth  of  Earth, 

Earth  born,  I  seek  the  fond,  familiar  hearth, 

In  the  wide  halls  of  her  who  gave  me  birth  ; 

And  love  thee  not  the  less 

For  thy  goats'  hoofs  and  thy  limbs'  shagginess. 

Sweet,  sweet,  oh,  passing  sweet,  it  were  to  hear, 

Though  but  with  my  soul's  ear, 

Thy  pipes,  oh,  Great  God  Pan, 

In  wild,  delirious  melodies  that  ran 

Like  wild  fire  through  the  vales  Arcadian. 

Oh,  sound  them  for  my  sake 

That  I  may  scale  the  heavens  of  heart  break. 

Oh,  Pan,  if  from  the  mountain  or  the  forest, 

Come  when  our  need  is  sorest; 

Stride  o'er  the  shadowed  page 

With  thy  goats'  hoofs  and  crush  with  a  God's  rage 

The  false  ideals  of  an  iron  age; 

Teach  us  the  golden  lore 

Of  all  the  golden  pages  of  before. 


— So  ran  my  fancies  while  I  kept 
My  vigils  o'er  the  boy  who  slept ; 
So  near,  he  slumbered  at  my  side ; 
So  far,  the  shoreless  seas  are  wide 
And  deep  that  rose  between  us  twain; 
He,  like  young  Hyacinthus,  slain 
By  a  God's  Love ;  for  Sleep  awhile 

193 


Had  slain  his  soul,  whose  boyish  smile 
Flashed  on  white  wings  across  the  grace 
Of  his  serene,  untroubled  face; 
And  I,  who  reached  out  from  the  Night 
Above  her  darkness  and  her  light, 
To  struggle  with  the  Infinite. 
Now  Dawn,  in  rose  and  saffron  shod, 
Stepped  through  the  gateways  of  the  God, 
With  rosy-lipped  persuasion  won 
Night's  summits  to  the  Radiant  One; 
On  the  broad  shield  his  blazoned  bars 
Displaced  her  coronet  of  stars; 
Despoiled  of  all  her  gems,  she  fled 
With  one  pale  star  upon  her  head. 
And  the  old  miracle,  retold 
In  rose,  in  saffron,  and  in  gold, 
Threw  wide  the  folded  gates,  that  keep 
Their  ward  upon  the  eyes  of  sleep. 
And  that  the  mountain  still  was  strong 
That  man  had  girdled  with  his  thong, 
And  that  its  heart  but  half  confessed 
His  leash  across  its  haughty  breast ; 
We  rose  when  Dawn  proclaimed  the  Day, 
And  went  with  him  our  westward  way. 
A  hundred  heights  impetuous  cast 
Their  shadow  o'er  us  as  we  passed. 
And  every  gracious  moment  drew 
The  curtain  from  some  fairer  view. 
We  scaled  its  crest,  and  stood  at  length 
Above  the  mountain's  conquered  strength, 


194 


And  East  and  West  on  either  hand, 

The  Poet's  Land,  The  Holy  Land. 

A  stainless  vision  without  flaw 

Flashed  up  beneath  us,  and  we  saw, 

Saw  in  the  distance  Stanford's  lift 

A  mortal  love's  Immortal  Gift; 

A  gracious  and  a  Godlike  fruit 

Of  Human  and  of  bitter  root; 

A  priceless  wine,  whose  grapes  were  trod 

And  crushed  beneath  the  feet  of  God; 

Hers  is  the  Large  Writ  Scroll,  to  prove 

Man's  Immortality  of  Love; 

And  all  the  great  and  gracious  dower 

From  Sorrow  golden-linked  to  Power. 

So  sharp  the  mountain  walls  divide 

The  alien  worlds  of  either  side, 

The  red  hearts  of  the  East  and  West 

Throbbed  with  full  pulses  through  the  breast 

That  lay  on  either  side  confessed. 

Lay  East  th'  illumined  scroll  of  God, 

But  half  effaced  where  man  had  trod ; 

A  shining  palimpsest,  unrolled 

In  green  and  azure,  lit  with  gold, 

God's  chosen  colours,  scattered  free, 

Green  Time's  fair  handmaid,  Blue  to  be, 

The  warden  of  Eternity. 

And  fairly  written,  strong  and  sure, 

Here  Man  had  scrawled  his  signature 

On  field  and  forest,  stamping  down 

The  deeper  impress  of  a  town, 


195 


White,  between  blue  and  green,  to  stand 

His  seals  upon  the  goodly  land. 

The  goodly  land  of  corn  and  wine, 

Of  reddening  tree,  and  purpling  vine ; 

The  summer  suns,  the  winter  rains, 

Run  in  sweet  madness  through  her  veins; 

And  the  kind,  ordered  madness  yields 

The  trebled  tithes  of  fertile  fields. 

The  lesser  forehead  of  the  plain 

Is  wrinkled  o'er  with  loss  and  gain; 

But  still  the  Sacred  West  shall  be 

Free  mountains,  bounded  by  the  free, 

No  man's  dominion  of  the  sea. 

Here  man  hath  set  no  stain  and  flaw 

Of  his  forged  seal  on  Nature's  law. 

When  the  young  stars  for  gladness  sang 

These  heights  and  deeps  with  echoes  rang; 

And  still  the  Poet's  vision  sees 

In  all  the  multitudinous  trees, 

The  branches  that  the  fair  young  Earth 

Set  for  the  Mayday  round  her  hearth, 

In  the  first  springtime  of  her  birth. 

Whereof  today  La  Honda  weaves 

Herself  a  coronet  of  leaves. 

Queen  of  the  twilight  lands,  that  pay 

No  homage  to  the  God  of  Day ; 

His  golden  arrows  blunted  fall 

Against  her  haughty  forest  wall. 

A  woodland  princess,  in  her  eyes 

Is  more  of  sunset  than  sunrise. 


196 


She  sees  the  white  tents  of  her  folk 

Encircled  by  the  camp  fire's  smoke, 

Between  her  and  the  ruddy  glow 

The  barefoot  boys  pass  to  and  fro ; 

Their  careless  fingers  clutch  the  wealth 

Of  stainless  and  untainted  health; 

They  learn  the  lore  of  Nature's  books, 

The  woods,  the  mountains,  and  the  brooks, 

The  shining  Words  of  God,  that  teach 

The  soul  the  Universal  Speech. 

Day  fled,  defeated  and  discrowned, 

Night's  sable  garments  swept  us  round. 

So  near !     Our  souls  together  crept, 

Huddled  away  from  Her  who  swept 

In  all  the  dreadful  pageantry 

That  Jove  unveiled  to  Semele, 

Wherefrom  man  hides  his  eyes,  lest  sight 

Be  blasted  by  excess  of  light. 

So  hid  our  souls  from  Her;  but  soon 

Upon  the  heights  a  silver  moon, 

The  top  and  crown  of  all  I  dreamed, 

Flashed  through  the  purple  void,  and  seemed, 

Seen  through  the  branches  of  the  trees, 

A  shining  sail  on  unknown  seas. 

And  the  fair  Sister  of  the  Day 

Brushed  with  her  light  our  fears  away; 

The  younger,  kindlier  God  dispelled 

That  August  Awfulness  of  Eld. 

Full  soon  thy  captive  spirit  wore 

The  chains  of  the  kind  conqueror, 


197 


The  gentle  and  the  golden  chains 
Wherein  the  loser  tells  his  gains. 
It  is  an  awful  thing  to  keep 
Long  vigils  in  the  shrine  of  Sleep; 
To  stare  deep-eyed  upon  the  eyes 
From  which  no  answering  light  replies; 
To  question  lips  that  may  not  reach 
The  shattered  golden  strings  of  speech; 
To  seek  the  soul  whose  wings  are  furled 
On  unknown  heights  of  some  new  world. 
An  awful — and  a  holy  thing, 
I  bid  My  Mother  Night  to  bring 
From  Her  high  heights,  that  holiest  are, 
Where  the  star  whispers  to  the  star, 
Through  the  awed  skies  the  Cosmic  Spell 
That  links  the  Heavens,  Earth  and  Hell 
With  secrets  that  they  may  not  tell; 
Hence  let  her  bring  again,  although 
My  heart  shall  break  anew  to  know 
All  the  vast  blackness  and  the  light 
That  burnt  the  blackness  of  the  night; 
And  the  tall  redwoods  boughs  unfurled 
Whose  topmost  branches  roofed  the  world, 
Where  my  unquiet  spirit  stood 
Between  thee  and  the  solitude 
Of  God,  the  mountains  and  the  wood. 
Ah,  Friend,  the  Human  overmuch 
Drew  me  from  some  Diviner  Touch; 
Else  had  I,  watching  in  the  bright 
And  perfect  beauty  of  that  night, 


198 


Bridged  with  my  soul  the  deep  abyss 

Where  yonder  Upper  Silence  is; 

Had  won  the  subtle  spell  that  taught 

The  Whence,  the  Where,  the  Why ;  had  caught 

Some  secret  of  Eternal  things; 

Had  drunk  deep  draughts  of  heavenly  springs ; 

Had  ate  of  that  forbidden  fruit 

Whose  flower  was  madness,  and  whose  root 

Crept  through  waste  spaces  of  the  years 

To  underflowing  streams  of  tears. 

Friend  of  an  Unforgotten  Day, 

What  light  shall  fall  upon  my  way 

Save  that  heart-breaking  splendour,  cast 

Through  the  stained  windows  of  the  Past, 

That  grim,  gaunt  shrine  where  Memory  is ; 

Stabbed  with  forbidden  ecstasies, 

Sharp  pangs  of  old-time  Joy  and  Pain 

Flung  from  their  ruthless  hands,  to  stain 

With  sullen  and  with  dreadful  red 

Her  white  lips  pressed  against  her  Dead. 

Oh,  My  Dear  Lands  !     My  Radiant  Lands  ! 

Where  Pleasure  gave  me  both  her  hands, 

Where  Hope  her  gilded  bauble  set 

Whereof  no  hue  remaineth  yet ; 

Now  only  black-robed  Memory  broods 

Above  her  barren  solitudes. 

One  hope  remains  of  old  desires ; 

One  glowing  coal  of  faded  fires; 

That  in  their  green  and  gentle  breast 

I  rest  who  knew  not,  shall  find  rest. 


199 


Aye,  soft  shall  fall  o'er  heart  and  brow, 
Unquiet,  but  grown  quiet  now, 
Though  careless  flung  by  stranger  hands 
The  earth  of  My  Remembered  Lands. 


200 


THE   HOUSE   OF    SPLENDID    VISIONS 

Prince  of  Desolation,  God  to  whom  no  gracious  odors  rise 
Of  the  flowers  upon  the  altar,  or  the  meats  of  sacrifice, 
There  are  dearer,  richer  offerings  that  find  favor  in  thine 
eyes. 

Thine,  the  subtle  odors  rising  from  the  garlands  of  regret ; 
Thine,  the  tears  that  scorch  in  falling;  thine,  the  soul's 

corroding  sweat, 
Poured  from  brimming  cups  of  anger,  when  The  Twelve 

are  secret  met. 

I   shall  know  thee  when  thou   comest,   thou  whose   livid 

brows  are  crowned 
With  a  wreath  of  scarlet  poppies,  plucked  upon  the  ghostly 

ground 
Where  the  sullen  waters  wander,  demon  haunted,  without 

sound. 

I  shall  know  thee  not  to  fear  thee;  thou  and  I  have  often 

met 
In  the  jousting  at  the  tourney,  where  the  lists  of  Life  are 

set; 
We  have  met,  and  thou  wert  victor ;  but  the  end  was  never 

yet. 

Shall  I  know  and  shall  I  wonder,  in  the  dawn  of  some  new 
day, 

201 


At  the  House  of  Splendid  Visions,  tenantless  and  in  decay, 
And  the  halls  a   God  hath  dwelt  in,   mingling  with   the 
common  clay? 

Shall  I  wake  to  fear  and  loathing  when  the  earth-worm 

nearer  crawls, 
Creeping  through  the  open  doorways,  creeping  o'er  the 

crumbling  walls, 
Rioting  with  rites  unholy  through  the  dark,  deserted  halls  ? 

Were  it  all  of  life  to  live,  and  were  it  all  of  death  to  die, 
But  the  ages  bear  in  travail,  and  the  new-born  babe  is  I, 
Whipped  in  fiery  circles  onward  through  the  cycles  of  the 
sky. 

Though  the  perfect  Pearl  of  Memory,  cast  in  death's  cor 
roding  wine, 

Lose  its  lustre,  pale  and  vanish  from  its  old,  familiar 
shrine, 

Yet  shall  "I"  be  lord  and  master  in  the  halls  of  Thine  and 
Mine. 

"I,"  the  redly  glowing  centre  of  a  black  circumference ; 
"I,"  the  verb  to  be  and  suffer,  in  an  ever  present  tense; 
"I,"  a  shadow,  dragged  a  captive,  in  the  triumph  of  events. 


I  am  I  through  all  the  ages  of  a  surety;  yet  am  I 

But  a  dream  of  angry  devils,  whipped  with  curses  from  on 

high, 
Or  the  jest  of  some  Mad  Boy  God,  drunk  with  nectar  in 

the  sky? 

202 


THE  WILL  OF   GOD 

INSCRIBED,     WITHOUT     PERMISSION,     TO     THE     ""PRESIDENTS' 
OF   THE   CENTRAL   AMERICAN    "REPUBLICS." 

God  said,  "I  have  waited  long, 

For  the  years  are  Mine  to  wait, 
With  a  patience  over-strong 

And  a  mercy  over-great. 

"But  now  I  weary  at  length 

Of  My  heavy  wrath  long  stored; 
And  I  bare  My  arm  of  strength 

And  the  lightning  of  My  sword. 

"Let  My  chosen  one  go  forth 

With  the  message  of  My  mouth; 
And  My  armies  of  the  North 

To  war  on  the  rebel  South. 

"For  the  land  is  wan  and  vexed 

That  a  double  rule  divides; 
And  the  people  sore  perplexed 

When  the  law  shifts  with  the  tides. 

"And  My  ways  are  not  the  ways 

Of  the  sons  of  men,  and  still 
From  out  of  its  tangled  maze 

Shines  the  gold  clew  of  My  Will; 


203 


"That  the  sword  of  Justice  bring, 
The  shelter  of  Mercy's  shield, 

And  that  Peace  and  Order  spring 
From  the  chaos  of  the  Field. 

"I  have  watched  and  waited  long, 
And  I  come  to  count  My  sheaves ; 

But  the  tares  are  high  and  strong 
And  with  naught -thereon  but  leaves. 

"I  will  sweep  them  from  My  path; 

They  shall  wither  as  a  gourd 
In  the  furnace  of  My  wrath. 

I  have  sworn  it,  I,  the  Lord." 


204 


THE  SHADOW  BEFORE— AT  NEW  YEAR'S 

Blew  bugles  from  a  far  off  height; 

The  bells  rang  sweet  and  clear; 
Wild  music  in  the  frosty  night; 

The  Birthnight  of  the  Year. 

From  Christmas  revels  lagged  behind 

Still  stood  upon  the  floor 
The  Lighted  Tree  that  brought  to  mind 

That  Other  Babe  of  yore. 

To  welcome  him  we  drew  the  latch; 

The  Boy  was  passing  fair, 
With  eyes  of  cloudless  blue,  to  match 

The  sunshine  of  his  hair. 

And,  oh,  they  cried,  our  steps  shall  keep 

Step  with  the  Boy  who  goes 
Through  springtime  daisies  drifted  deep, 

And  jungles  of  the  rose. 

Our  Golden  Rosary  of  Days 

In  shining  sequence  told, 
A  bead  for  Summer's  orchard  ways, 

And  Autumn's  sheaves  of  gold. 

And  when  again  returns  The  Birth, 

Our  wonted  All  shall  reach 
Half  circled  round  the  wonted  hearth, 

And  each  clasp  hands  with  each. 


205 


But  one,  whose  sad,  prophetic  soul 

Strange  marks  of  torture  bore, 
Saw  from  the  Boy's  white  hands  unroll 

The  Shadow  Cast  Before. 

Ere  Time  with  blighting  hand  shall  touch 

The  Boy's  gold  hair  with  gray, 
Of  these,  much  loved,  and  loving  much, 

One  shall  have  passed  away. 

One  grown  All  Patient,  He  or  She, 

With  white  and  folded  hands 
Shall  drift  out  on  the  unknown  sea 

To  undiscovered  lands. 

Peace !    Peace !    With  Him  or  Her  be  Peace. 

But  woe  to  those  bereft. 
No  truce  with  braggart  peace  from  these 

Whom  He  or  She  hath  left. 

But  these  shall  draw  themselves  apart 

And  sit  with  eyes  grown  dim ; 
Hands  clutched  above  the  breaking  heart 

That  breaks  for  Her  or  Him. 

Shall  hear  with  old  remembered  pain 
THAT  voice,  distinct,  but  thinned, 

Rise  o'er  the  falling  of  the  rain, 
And  struggle  with  the  wind. 


206 


And  they  shall  tremble  at  the  sound. 

Oh,  Nature's  Broken  Trust! 
How  wind  and  rain  are  tossed  around 

Above  that  Sacred  Dust. 

Dust !    Dust !    Ah,  Dust  were  passing  well 

If  Nature's  kindlier  law. 
Oh,  Seven  Times  Heated  Fires  of  Hell ! 

If  Dust  were  all  they  saw ! 

But  THIS  !     This  ghoulish  feast  of  Death, 

His  grim  and  ghastly  spoils, 
From  which,  with  terror  gasping  breath, 

The  heart  of  man  recoils. 

Drown  Memory  in  the  black  abyss. 

Heap  high  the  earth  above. 
Oh,  Christ,  the  pitiful !     Is  THIS 

That  which  we  used  to  love? 


207 


TO  THE  WOMAN 

WRITER    OF    THE    BATTLE    HYMN. 

What  make  you,  weak  and  Woman's  hand 
With  these  sharp  tools  of  Art? 

Or  seek  within  the  Poet's  Land 
Where  Woman  hath  no  part? 

The  fiefs  are  many  in  the  Land 

That  owns  our  Lord,  the  Sun ; 
The  Star  Crowned  Kings  about  him  stand, 

The  vassal  Queens  were  none. 

Who  bade  thee  rise  above  the  height 

Of  Nature's  niggard  plan, 
To  crown  thy  Woman's  brows  with  light 

And  overtop  the  Man? 

Who  gave  into  Thy  Woman's  hand 

The  Lightning  of  the  Lord, 
And  bade  thee  spill  upon  the  land 

His  Cup  of  Wrath  long  stored? 

Who  bade  thy  Woman's  gentle  voice 

The  Trump  of  God  to  roll, 
And  rise  above  the  battle's  noise 

The  Thunder  of  the  Soul  ? 

Thy  words  the  dying  soldier  found 

The  thunder  and  its  light. 
He  wrapped  him  in  the  light  and  sound 

And  went  into  the  Night. 

208 


GOD  AND   THE  POET 

God  and  the  Poet  and  Night, 
And  the  Night  stood  still  upon 

The  top  of  her  topmost  height 
Midway  between  dusk  and  dawn. 

Night,  and  a  light  in  the  night 

That  lit  itself  and  illumed ; 
Wonderful,  mystical,  white, 

That  burned  and  was  unconsumed. 

And  the  night  was  tranced  to  a  hush; 

And  sudden  the  winds  grew  still. 
And  God  from  the  Burning  Bush 

Spoke  to  the  Poet  His  Will. 

God  said  to  the  Poet,  "Thou 
Art  royal.     I  give  thee  to  wear 

A  crown  of  thorns  for  thy  brow ; 
But  thyself  shall  fashion  it  fair. 

"Thou  shalt  fashion  it  in  My  Sight; 

Strength  do  I  give  thee  to  keep ; 
I  give  thee  light  in  the  night; 

Watch  thou,  while  thy  brothers  sleep. 

"On  the  altar  of  sacrifice 

Thou  shalt  lay  at  My  feet  thy  heart. 
Thou  shalt  buy  thy  soul  with  a  price 

Since  soul  of  My  Soul  thou  art." 

209 


And  the  Poet  stood  upright 

And  named  the  Wonderful  Name 

And  his  soul  in  that  fierce  light 
Stood  naked  and  without  shame. 

While  ever  within  his  sight 
The  splendours  rose  and  fell 

That  veil  th'  intolerable  light 
Of  the  Presence  made  visible. 


210 


THE   PASSING   OF  JOY 

What  doth  young  Hyacinthus  here,  or  is  it  he  of  Troy, 
Or  loved  of  Goddess  or  of  God,  but  each  the  fairest  boy 
That  ever  set  a  world  at  arms,  or  bade  a  God  employ 
His  shining  soul  in  servile  deeds  to  win  a  favor  coy. 

Or  is  it  that  fair  Spartan  lad,  forever  beautiful, 

So  passing  fair  the  water  nymphs  raised  their  white  arms 

to  pull 
Him  down  amidst  the  pleasant  shades  of  waters  dim  and 

cool. 
For  whom  the  great  Alcides  crowns  his  hero  brows  with 

wool. 

Or  hath  the  young  Antinous  arisen  from  the  wave, 

And  burst  the  leaden  chains  of  death,  the  dungeons  of  the 

grave, 
Who  led  a  vassal  to  his  will,  his  crowned  and  sceptred 

slave ; 
The  Master  of  the  Roman  world — and  impotent  to  save. 

Nay,  it  is  none  of  these  dead  boys,  so  beautiful  of  yore, 
Who  wave  their  wan,  white  hands  to  us,  from  their  dim, 

ghostly  shore. 

But  He,  my  Well  Beloved  Joy,  is  fairer  than  the  four, 
Though  each  was  fairest  of  the  fair  that  all  the  ages  bore. 

His  brows  are  wonderfully  white;  his  lips  are  coral  red; 
Upon  his  cheeks  the  rose  of  York  and  Tudor  rose  are 
wed; 

211 


And  when  he  opens  his  blue  eyes,  the  erring  dawn  shall 

tread 
On   stranger  ways  of  unknown   heights,  bewildered   and 

misled. 

Alack!    Alack!     What  ails  the  boy?     He  hath  gone  far 

to  seek 
In  some  dim,  undiscovered  land,  that  patience  pale  and 

meek, 

That  dulls  the  azure  of  his  eyes,  the  roses  of  his  cheek. 
Thrice  Beautiful  and  Best  Beloved!     Speak  to  me  when 

I  speak! 

Dead !   Dead  !    And  shall  such  Beauty  die,  such  Glory  pass 

away, 
Such  Splendour  leave  its  native  heavens  to  hide  its  light 

in  clay? 
Joy  dead!     Then  let  the  shining  dawn  forsake  the  gates 

of  day; 
That  heaven   and   earth  alike  may  wear  a  monotone  of 

gray. 


212 


GOD    DEFEND    THE    RIGHT 

Lord  of  Hosts,  God  of  Battles,  arm  the  Right ! 

When  the  little  Island  Empire  goes  like  David  to  the  fight. 

Be  Thou  then  the  shield  before  her, 

Be  the  wing  to  hover  o'er  her, 

Be  her  cloud  of  smoke  by  day,  and  be  her  cloud  of  fire  by 
night. 

Let  the  justice  of  her  pleading 

With  Thy  Spirit  interceding, 
Rise  above  the  noise  of  battle  and  find  favor  in  Thy  sight. 

Lord  of  Hosts,  God  of  Justice,  shield  the  Just! 
Be  a  mighty  fortress  to  her,  though  in  Thee  is  not  her 
trust. 

For  her  cause  is  high  and  human, 
For  our  Brothers  born  of  woman, 

Twice  two  hundred  squalid  millions,  cowering  abject  in 
the  dust. 

With  her  strength  may  she  uplift  them, 
Save  them  from  themselves,  and  gift  them, 
Dower   them'  with   the   gift   of   ransom   from   the   brutal 
Cossack's  lust. 

Lord  of  Hosts,  God  of  Mercy,  know  Thine  own ! 

For  Thy  harvest  fields  stand  ready  where  the   seeds  of 
wrath  were  sown. 

When  Thy  sickles  are  a-reaping, 
When  Thy  sheaves  of  grain  are  heaping, 

213 


When  Thy  harvesters  are  vanished,  and  Thy  harvest  fields 
all  mown, 

Comes  the  hour  of  Thy  awarding, 
Thy  condemning,  Thy  rewarding, 

Sift  their  motives  out,  and  judge  them  at  the  footstep  of 
Thy  throne. 

Lord  of  Hosts,  God  of  Vengeance,  lift  Thy  hand ! 
For   a   long  black   shadow   lies   athwart,   and   blights   an 
ancient  land. 

Serpent-subtile  in  its  creeping, 

Tiger-cruel  in  its  leaping, 
Let  it  wither  as  a  gourd  before  the  fire  of  Thy  command. 

God  of  Vengeance,  when  Thy  thunder 

Parts  the  plunderer  from  his  plunder, 

Cursed  be  he   who  moves  the  landmarks  and  the  metes 
from  where  they  stand. 


214 


THE   GOLDEN  CUPS   OF   GOD 

INSCRIBED,    WITHOUT    PERMISSION,    TO    THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 

Pray  you,  sir,  content  your  Highness  with  the  tribute  due 

to  Caesar. 
Touch    not    THESE!     The   Golden   Vessels   bear   the 

Covenant  of  our  lands. 
Touch  them  not,  or  touch  them  lightly,  with  your  soldier's 

hands,  for  these,  sir, 

THESE,  the  Levites  of  the  Temple  scarce  may  touch 
with  reverent  hands. 

Break    your    adamant    of    purpose,    rash,    impetuous    and 

unswerving ; 
Bare  your  feet !     'Tis  holy  ground  whereon  the  Poet's 

feet  have  trod. 
Holy,   holy  to  the   Lord,   whereon  his   priestly   hands   in 

serving, 

Poured  the  sacrificial  wine  from  out  the  Golden  Cups  of 
God. 

They  were  wrought  by  cunning  workmen,  in  the  cot  and 

in  the  castle, 
Haughty  hand  of  Norman  noble,  humble  hand  of  Saxon 

thrall, 
Shaped  the  English  metal  deftly,  midst  the  weeping  or  the 

wassail, 

By  the  turf  fires,  at  the  ingle  nook,  the  torches  in  the 
hall. 


215 


Cleanly   souls  of  Northern   stature  climbed  their  Jacob's 

stairs  of  serving. 
And  the  cognizance  of  princes  lights  the  path  of  him 

who  serves. 
Did  the  graver  slip  within  their  hands  ?     Then  it  may  be  in 

the  swerving 

That  the  golden  lines  grew  tangled  in  a  knot  of  gracious 
curves. 

So  the  goodly  cups  were  fashioned;  and  the  splendour  of 

their  gleaming 
Lit  the  mediaeval  shadows,  as  they  passed  from  mouth  to 

mouth ; 
And  His  Spirit  touched  the  Poet's  lips  and  the  Poet  in  his 

dreaming 

Set  the  Northern  gold  a-sparkle  with  the  jewels  of  the 
South. 

Purple  gems  from  Grecian  quarries,  solemn  monotones  of 

colour; 
Pearls  despoiled  from  Eastern  peoples;  Latin  gems  of 

cosmic  flame; 

Jewish  jewels  from  the  Temple,  higher,  holier  and  duller 
With    their    smouldering    depths    a-tremble    with    the 
radiance  of  the  NAME. 

High  and  holy  hands  have  held  them;  and  the  splendour 

of  the  Human 

Threw  diviner  lights  upon  the  antique  vessels  in  their 
hands. 


216 


Standing  upright  in  the  Presence,  unafraid,  though  born 

of  woman, 

Heaping  to  a  jealous  God  the  First  Fruits  of  our  English 
lands. 

Shakespeare,  with  his  arms  colossal  circling  all  the  lands 

and  ages; 
Keats,  whose  boyish  hands  essayed  to  guide  the  coursers 

of  the  sun; 
Milton,  soiling  his  high  office  with  his  treason's  hell-got 

wages ; 

Tennyson,  the  golden  throated,  from  the  purple  heights 
he  won. 

These  have  served  the  Sacred  Vessels  that  have  bound  the 

kindred  nations; 
Linked  and  leashed  in  laws  of  loving  by  their  golden 

arabesque. 
They  have  served  to  pour  our  father's  God  the  wine  of 

our  oblations, 

Though  your  Highness'  haughty  humor  hold  the  antique 
lines  grotesque. 

Servant,  masterful  in  serving;   Master,  to  your  servants 

loyal ; 

Hotspur  in  the  van  of  Progress ;  final  apex  of  His  plan ; 
High   born   Tribune   of   the   people,    wearing   lightly   the 

Blood  Royal, 

Long  descended,  high  ascended,  to  the  red  heart  of  the 
MAN. 


217 


Undefiled    and    undiminished,    give    us    back    our    ancient 

letters ! 
Moses  smote  the  desert  rock,  the  thirsty  people  drank 

their  fill; 
Of  the  Courtesy  we  crave  you,  we,  your  clients,  are  your 

debtors, 

Greater  that  it  flows  reluctant  from  the  granite  of  your 
will. 

Master  mind  of  many  moods,  your  mood  may  make,  but 

may  not  alter; 
Lead  the  armies  of  the  Morning,  and  we  follow  where 

you  lead. 
Handle   not   to   their   misuse   the    Sacred   Vessels   on   the 

altar. 

By  the  Splendour  of  the  Soul  of  God,  they  still  shall 
serve  our  need ! 


218 


THE   CALL  TO   ARMS 

Children  of  the  Rising  Sun,  return ! 

For  new  lights  are  glowing  where  the  ancient  watch  fires 
burn. 

Come  from  lowlands  and  from  highlands, 

And  a  thousand  tropic  islands, 
Tangled  in  a  knot  of  emeralds  in  the  amethystine  blue. 

To  the  mother-land  that  bore  ye, 

With  the  Sun  Flag  floating  o'er  ye, 

And  the  old  familiar  pathways  that  your  wandering  foot 
steps  knew. 

Children  of  the  Rising  Sun,  come  home ! 
From  the  far-off  western  land  across  the  foam. 

Drop  the  mattock  and  the  spade, 

And  the  tools  of  toil  and  trade ; 
There  are  nobler  tools  a-forging  in  the  furnace  of  events. 

There's  the  land  for  your  assistance, 

There's  the  foe  for  your  resistance, 

With  his  vast  and  brutish  body  sprawled  across  two  conti 
nents. 

Children  of  the  Rising  Sun,  go  forth ! 
For  your  Mother  sets  a  banquet  for  the  vultures  in  the 
north. 

There'll  be  service  at  the  feast 
For  the  greatest  and  the  least, 

For  each  son  of  the  old  empire,  old  two  thousand  years 
ago. 

219 


While  the  crimson  tide  is  flowing, 
And  the  banquet  lights  are  glowing, 

And  the  vultures  gorge  their  greedy  fill  upon  the  spread 
of  snow. 

Children  of  the  Rising  Sun,  arise ! 

For  the  fiery  skeins  of  lightning  are  tangled  in  the  skies. 

There's  the  roll  and  crash  of  thunder 

As  the  old  worlds  fall  asunder; 

But  the  strong  young  eastern  Britain  from  the  storm  and 
stress  shall  spring; 

With  the  glamour  of  old  splendour, 

New  ideals  to  defend  her, 

And  with  shelter  for  the  peoples  of  the  Orient  'neath  her 
wing. 


220 


"THE    GIFT    TO    DIE" 

TO    MY    LADY    FORTUNE. 

Out  on  you,  harlot !     Gorged  with  gold, 
Giving  your  all  to  churl  and  clown; 

Drab  of  a  play  day,  bought  and  sold, 
Body  and  soul  and  scarlet  gown. 

Flung  as  a  plaything  to  the  base, 
Tossed  as  a  toy  from  man  to  man, 

Where  each  may  win  you  and  wear  a  space, 
And  he  may  have  you  and  hold — who  can. 

And  so  you  have  come  for  a  moment's  stay. 

I  may  clip  and  kiss  you  and  claim  my  right. 
And  who  was  it  won  you  yesterday? 

And  who  shall  win  you  tomorrow  night  ? 

Yet  yesterday  to  have  won  your  kiss, 
The  Judas  kiss  from  your  lips  that  fell, 

Why,  I  would  have  given  my  all  for  this, 
Body  and  soul  to  burn  in  hell. 

Now,  Patience,  a  beggar,  sits  outworn ; 

The  gates  of  Reserve  are  flung  apart; 
And  I  write  my  name  in  the  Book  of  Scorn 

With  the  last  black  drops  of  a  breaking  heart. 

I  had  not  cared  that  my  life  should  hold 
In  a  red  and  rabble  rout  of  noise, 


221 


Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  gold, 
The  overgrown  children's  outworn  toys. 

They  were  naught  to  a  soul  like  mine ;  for  so 
I  had  been  content  had  the  path  I  trod 

Borne  the  Red  Flower  of  the  Poet's  woe, 
And  the  Bitter  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  God. 

Oh,  he  who  is  born  to  the  Purple,  Knows. 

And  God  be  my  Judge !     I  knew  it  well, 
While  thrice  a  decade  of  wants  and  woes 

I  served  my  time  at  the  gates  of  hell. 

But  who  that  passed  me  by  should  see 
Beneath  the  cloak  of  hodden  gray, 

The  purple  and  gold  of  Royalty 
Sparkle  and  flash  and  burn  away? 

And  up  from  desperate  depths  of  me 

And  down  from  despairing  heights,  my  eye 

Flung  them  with  mocking  courtesy 
The  Poet's  arrogant  I  Am  I. 

I  had  but  a  soul,  and  I  threw  my  all, 
A  pearl  of  price,  in  an  Esau's  pot. 

I  clinched  the  chain  on,  sorrow's  thrall, 
And  little  reward  I  won,  God  wot. 

I  bent  my  soul  to  the  body's  need, 
And  wrought  at  a  starved  and  stubborn  soil 


222 


Apples  of  Sodom  were  my  meed, 

And  the  jester's  cap  to  crown  my  toil. 

I  chose  perforce  the  worser  part. 

And  the  pangs  of  an  impotent  desire 
Stabbed  in  and  seared  against  my  heart 

Cut  like  a  sword  and  burn  like  fire. 

Roses  grow  by  the  garden  walk ; 

Roses  grow  on  the  garden  wall; 
They  are  dear  to  me,  flower  and  stalk, 

Heart's  blood,  soul's  sweat  drenched  them  all, 

A  star  in  a  midnight  tempest  tossed ; 

A  gleam  of  light  upon  wintry  seas ; 
And  so — the  battle  was  fought  and  lost, 

And  my  soul  was  priced  at  toys  like  these. 

And  my  soul  against  its  prison  bars 

Beat  in  its  impotent  despair, 
For  the  clean  white  spaces  of  the  stars 

And  the  blue  serene  of  the  upper  air ; 

For  the  cool  green  silence  of  the  wood ; 

For  the  white-lipped  voices  of  the  sea ; 
For  the  purple  hills  of  solitude, 

And  the  golden  paths  of  liberty. 

But  if  for  a  moment,  in  idle  whim, 
Or  patient  passion,  I  tried  to  slip 


223 


The  gyves  from  bruised  and  bleeding  limb, 
Duty,  the  master,  cracked  his  whip. 

Out  on  you,  now,  you  two-faced  jade! 

Your  fickle  favors  are  dearly  bought. 
Come  if  you  will  and  ply  your  trade. 

But  come  as  you  will,  you  will  come  unsought. 

Though  you  gave  as  a  God  might  give,  and  not 
From  a  miser's  fingers,  scrimped  and  doled, 

As  a  God  might  give  to  a  God,  God  wot, 
Of  his  myrrh  and  frankincense  and  gold, 

I  would  pass  them  by  with  heedless  eyes; 

I  would  not  see,  or  I  would  not  care; 
I  would  give  them  all  for  the  pearl  of  price 

That  you  can  not  give  and  I  can  not  wear ; 

For  the  soul  that  answered  the  wood  bird's  note, 
Or  spread  its  wings  and  adventured  far, 

For  the  heart  that  under  the  ragged  coat 
Throbbed  to  the  pulse  of  sun  and  star. 

Though  you  flung  your  glittering  jewels  high 
Till  they  spilled  from  the  golden  cup  again, 

I  would  choose  from  all  but  "The  Gift  to  Die," 
And  to  cleanse  my  soul  from  the  souls  of  men. 


224 


THE  GOLDEN   SPURS   OF   GOD 

Leave  me  here,  I  pray,  a  little.     Thou  art  Thou  and  I  am  I. 
Thou  and  I  rise  up  between  us,  and  the  mad  Gods  in  the 

sky. 
Thou   art   cloth   of   gold   of   morning,   lit   with   iridescent 

gleams ; 
I  am  purple  stuff  of  midnight,  pierced  with  opal  light  of 

dreams ; 
Thou  art  soft  and  shining,  painted  pink  and  white,  a  pretty 

toy, 

Dandled  on  the  lap  of  Nature,  fondled  in  the  arms  of  Joy; 
I,  the  ghost  of  some  lost  God,  who  wander  on  from  age 

to  age, 

Through  the  endless  cycles,  seeking  my  withholden  heritage. 
I  am  immortelles  of  graveyards;  thou  art  roses  drenched 

in  dew; 

Who  shall  bind  the  twain  together?     What  shall  be  be 
tween  us  two? 
Leave  me  now,  again  I  pray  thee,  for  the  sentry  stars  are 

drawn 
All  about  night's  ancient  temples,  midway  between  dusk 

and  dawn. 
Playday  friend,  await  our  play-clays.     I  alone  would  win 

and  wear 
In  my  soul  a  deeper  secret  than  the  heart  of  man  may 

bear. 
Raised  upon  despairing  heights  and  plunged  in  guilty  deeps 

again, 
Wrenching  from  the  churlish  warders  Whence  and  Where 

and  Why  and  When. 

225 


Tis  the  place  as  once  I  knew  it.     I,  the  ghost  of  him  who 

knew, 
Free  to  walk  the  earth  till  cock-crow,  seek  my  olden  paths 

anew; 
Ocean  View,  that  from  the  distance  overlooks  the  shifting 

sands 
Flung  from  roaring  ocean  caverns  on  her  wan  and  wasted 

lands. 
Here  of  old,  a  boy  I  wandered  where  the  ocean  mists  are 

curled 
Round  the  hilltops  sloping  westward  to  the  edges  of  the 

world. 

In  a  labyrinth  of  shadows,  dreaming  some  old  dream  anew, 
Clutching  with  a  boyish  ardor  broken  sword  and  tangled 

clew. 
Many  a  night  from  yonder  casement  did  I  watch  Orion 

rise 
With  his  jeweled  girdle  striding  with  wide  steps  across 

the  skies; 
Many  a  night  I   watched  the   Pleiads  with  their  patient 

eyes  grown  dim 
Seek  beloved  and  lost  Electra  strayed  beyond  the  heaven's 

rim; 
Many  a  night  when  night  was  flying  did  I  see  a  pallid 

Dawn 
Shrink  reluctant  from  her  chambers  with  a  pall  of  mist 

o'er  drawn; 
Saw  the  sentry  stars  retreating,  driven  from  the  heavenly 

field, 
And  the  golden  bars  of  morning  flaunt  above  night's  sable 

shield. 

226 


All  the  pageantry  of  Nature  fed  the  altar  fires  of  Art, 
Twin  and  equal  royal  sisters,  regnant  ever  in  my  heart. 
And  I   walked   in   rhythmic  madness  and   in   airy   fetters 

bound, 

Captive  to  a  dream  of  Beauty  and  a  melody  of  sound. 
Hark!     What   God   compelling  thunder   splits   the   earth 

from  pole  to  pole, 
What  divine  abysses  open,  driving  lightnings   round   my 

soul! 
Hark !    What  ecstasies  of  battle  and  what  clash  of  Gods  at 

strife, 
Tis  the   Blind   Old   Beggar  calls  me,   thundering  at  the 

gates  of  life. 
Homer,  dead,  but  ever  Deathless;  Homer,  the  All  Seeing 

blind; 
Homer,  begging  bitter  bread,  and  King  of  all  the  Kings  of 

mind. 
Falls  a  gleam  of  Antique  Splendour  on  the  jacket  of  the 

boy; 
NOW,  the  Golden  Age  about  him,  HERE,  before  the  walls 

of  Troy. 
Dawn  above  beleaguered  Ilium  and  the  Greek  encampment 

hums 
With    the    voice    of    many    peoples,    for    divine    Achilles 

comes. 
Pallas,  cold  and  Tudor  hearted,  with  the  lightning  of  her 

glance 
Flashed   from   frozen   deeps   of   azure,   leads   the   van   of 

Greek  advance. 
Phoebus,    standing    from   the    rabble    of   the    lesser    Gods 

apart, 

227 


Guards  the  sacred  walls  that  rose  responsive  to  his  Poet 

Art. 
Oh,  the  splendour  of  the  madness;  oh,  the  glory  of  the 

dream 
Flashing  through  the  gates  of  ivory,  with  All  Beauty  for 

its  theme. 
Fancy,  brought  to  bed  of  Sorrow,  in  his  shower  of  golden 

rain 

Feels  the  throbbing  of  Her  First  Born,  with  an  old  remem 
bered  pain. 
Fancy,  fleeing  Time's  duress  on  wings  of  wide  aspiring, 

spills 
Antique  gems  from  Eastern  quarries  on  a  slope  of  Western 

hills. 
While  the  boy,  as  Ganymede,  caught  in  upper  space  and 

whirled 

On  titanic  wings  of  light  above  the  shadow  of  the  world, 
Ate  in  trembling  of  the  spirit  and  with  gasping  of  the 

breath 
That  forbidden  Fruit  of  Life  in  those  forgotten  halls  of 

death. 
Homer's  magic  and  the  boy !     Ah,  here  was  wild  and  bitter 

work 
Brewed  in  some  Medea's  caldron  in  a  haunted  midnight 

mirk. 
Woe  to  him  whose  boyish  fingers  pluck  the  dragon-guarded 

fruit 
That  hath  sorrow  for  its  blossom  and  black  madness  for 

its  root. 
I  am  free  and  franchised  yonder  on  the  heights  beyond  the 

stars, 

228 


Free  to  guide  the  Sun  God's  coursers  through  the  morn 
ing's  shining  bars. 
But  a  crownless  prince  I   wander,   and  in   royal  rags  I 

stand, 

Stranger  to  my  mother  age  and  alien  in  my  father's  land. 
And  my  eyes  grow  dull  and  heavy,  wounded  by  exceeding 

light, 
And  my  ears  are  vexed  with  voices  crying  ceaseless  in  the 

night. 
Life,   a   drab   in   outworn  tatters,   hastens   to   her   sullen 

close 
In  a  masque  of  Fates  and  Furies  and  a  mire  of  Wants  and 

Woes. 

Better  I  were  lying  yonder,  where  the  golden  poppies,  spun 
From  his  raveled  cloth  of  satin,  rise  to  greet  Our  Lord, 

the  Sun. 
Where  nemophila  lies  weeping  tears  of  dew  from  her  blue 

eyes 

For  her  deeper  deeps  of  azure  in  the  walls  of  paradise. 
Nay,  but  Nature  hath  her  vengeance;  banned  and  barred 

and  broken,  still 

As  a  God,  exacts  her  incense ;  as  a  woman,  works  her  will. 
Angry  Nature  smears  her  tablets  and  the  straight  lines  of 

her  plan; 
And  the  heavens  gain  a  Poet — but  the  world  hath  lost  a 

Man. 

Man  is  one  as  God  unchanging;  but  the  Poet  still  is  three, 
Man  and  boy  and  woman,  mingled  in  a  changing  trinity. 
And  the  boy  within  my  bosom,  starved  and  stinted,  still 

shall  claim 


229 


Dew  of  morning  to  my  noonday,  though  it  shrink  in  that 

fierce  flame. 
I,  the  dreamer,  in  my  dreaming  dreamed  a  deeper,  truer 

truth 

In  the  silver  bubbles  floating  in  the  golden  halls  of  youth ; 
Found  in  his  fantastic  follies  the  fulfilling  of  the  law, 
Beauty  in  the  blackened  blot  and  all  perfection  in  the  flaw. 
Oh,  to  throw  from  off  my  soul  the  purple  pall  of  mournful 

rhyme ! 
Oh,  to  wrench  one  hour  of  morning  from  the  niggard  hand 

of  Time ! 
Oh,  to  see  the  years  behind  me  swiftly  lessening  down  the 

night, 
All  the  world  untrod  before  me  at  the  breaking  of  the 

light ! 

Oh,  to  see,  a  careless  boy,  the  gilded  bark  of  morning  float 
Through  the  rosy  seas  of  ether  and  through  purple  hills 

remote ! 
This  were  more  than  Poet's  poem;  this  were  more  than 

singer's  song; 
Though    the    ages    swept    them    starwards    on    increasing 

currents  strong. 
Fool !     If  Fancy  lead  thy  footsteps,  let  her  lead  them  to 

thy  gain. 
Get  thyself  largesse  from  Sorrow  and  a  guerdon  out  of 

Pain. 
Shall    the    boy's    weak    fingers,    clutching   his    mirage    of 

earthly  things 

Hold  thy  wild,  exulting  sorrow,  soaring  on  exalted  wings? 
Wilt  thou  lead  the  ages  captive  in  a  fickle  chain  of  joy 

230 


Of  the  evanescent  roses  from  the  forehead  of  the  boy? 
Drown  thy  soul  in  azure  deeps  of  his  serene,  untroubled 

eyes; 

Jove-like,  set  his  shining  hair  a  constellation  in  the  skies. 
This  were  folly  past  the  folly  that  a  folly's  wage  beseems; 
This  were  folly  crowned  by  madness  at  the  ivory  gate  of 

dreams. 

There  be  braver  banners  flying  than  the  banner  of  the  boy, 
With  its  field  of  gold  and  azure  and  its  crimson  rose  of 

joy. 
Throw  thy  all  within  the  balance ;  weigh  thy  more  against 

his  less; 
Thou  art  captive — Crowned  and  Sceptred — murmur  not  at 

thy  duress. 

Ate  lights  the  torch  of  fancy  and  the  Furies  fly  behind; 
He  shall  pawn  his  heart  who  wears  the  costly  jewels  of 

the  mind. 
Let  thy  almond  flower  of  Beauty  bloom  upon  the  barren 

rod; 
And  thy  scattered  Rose  of  Passion  strew  the  path  that 

leads  to  God. 

Gather  thee  thy  little  all,  and  bring  the  undiminished  whole 
To  the  Lord  in  many  regions  and  the  Captain  of  the  Soul. 
Oh,  the  stars  in  heaven  are  many;  but  the  Sun  is  crowned 

and  One, 
And  his  star-crowned  vassals  render  homage  to  Our  Lord, 

the  Sun. 
Keats,  untimely  slain  in  battle;   Shelley,  dead  beside  the 

sea; 
Tennyson,  the  flawless  mirror  to  reflect  all  chivalry; 

231 


Homer's  shining  antique  spear  and  Shakespeare's  mediaeval 

lance ; 
These    have    rifled    all    the    castles    in    the    kingdom    of 

Romance. 
And  the  golden  halls  stand  empty,  and  the  shining  land  lies 

bare, 
And  the  lesser  knights  but  gather  crumbs  of  Honour  for 

their  share. 
Wilt  thou  at  the  laureled  altar  break  the  Bread  of  Life 

with  these, 

Drink  the  sacrificial  chalice  to  its  black  and  bitter  lees; 
Waiting  in  the  inner  holies,  spirit  naked  and  unshod, 
For  the  Accolade  of  Phoebus,  and  the  Golden  Spurs  of 

God? 


232 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE   SOUTH   TO   LINCOLN 

As  Florence  drew  about  her  breast  the  lilies  of  her  scorn, 
And  sent  an  exile  from  her  heart,  her  First  and  Eldest 

born, 
The   flawless   gem,   the   flashing   star,   the    fair,    imperial 

flower, . 
Which    might,    diminished    twenty    times,    have    been    a 

nation's  dower; 

So  we,  exalted  o'er  the  lands,  to  whom  the  Babe  was  born, 
Received  him  with  our  lamps  unfilled,   and   laughed  the 

Gift  to  scorn. 

The  river  of  our  ancient  blood,  a  river  deep  and  wide, 
Encircled  with  its  sullen  waves  our  purple  peaks  of  pride. 
The  crowned  phantoms  of  our  race,  their  ghostly  voices 

cast 

Into  His  balances,  that  weigh  the  future  with  the  past. 
Our  voice  annulled  the  voice  of  God,  we  trod  the  blossom 

down; 
Ourselves,  with  ruthless  hands,  despoiled  the  Jewel  from 

our  Crown. 
Our  Morning  Star,  by  night  forbid  to  give  its  light,  went 

forth ; 
Our  Wandering  Pleiad  rose  afar,  the  Pole   Star  of  the 

North. 


And  as  the  faithless  city  yearns  in  pangs  of  mother  pain, 
And  stretches  forth  her  empty  hands  to  claim  her  own 
again, 

233 


Our  earth-born   voices   cry   to   him   across   the   voiceless 

void; 
We  strive  to  warm  our  hearts  before  the  fire  ourselves 

destroyed. 
And  still  the  Thought!     That  fadeless  lamp  on  altars  of 

regret. 

Might  Time  approach  Eternity  to  pay  so  dear  a  debt! 
To    us    remains,    with    hands    made    clean,    with    contrite 

hearts  to  bring 
Such  gifts  as  Love  may  lay  before  a  Prophet,  Priest  and 

King. 

We  give  a  gift,  a  gracious  gift,  a  gift  of  gifts,  to  shine 
More  dear  than   frankincense,  or  myrrh,  or  gold  before 

his  shrine. 

We  give  the  purple  of  our  pride,  the  scarlet  of  our  sin, 
Wherewith  to  weave  a  snow-white  pall  for  him  who  lies 

within. 
Doubt  not  he  knows!     Doubt  not  to  him,  the  Just  and 

Merciful, 
Our  purple  is  as  cloth  of  gold,  our  scarlet  white  as  wool. 


234 


MISERERE   DOMINE 

OCTOBER    10,    1911. 

Thou  dost  not  know,  My  Well  Beloved, 

Within  her  bosom  sleeping, 
With  what  mad  steps  the  earth  hath  moved 

That  holds  thee  in  her  keeping. 
Thou  shalt  not  know;  and  I  rejoice 

That  These,  at  least,  are  holy; 
God's  Silence  o'er  the  people's  voice, 

And  Death  above  life's  folly. 

The  people  greet  their  queen  today, 

Their  new  crowned  Progress  hailing. 
Oh,  God !     If  this  their  mirth,  I  pray 

Let  me  not  hear  their  wailing. 
From  spirit  heights  I  see  beyond. 

Oh,  discord  of  tomorrow ! 
Oh,  glad,  exultant  voices  wanned 

And  beaten  thin  by  Sorrow ! 

Oh,  Christ !     In  yonder  Human  shrine  ; 

Oh,  God  !     Above  its  steeple ; 
Oh,  Mystic  Trinity  Divine, 

Pity  this  frenzied  people. 
Thy  rods  to  heal  their  sin,  oh,  Lord, 

With  gracious  balms  of  Sadness; 
Draw  not  the  lightning  of  Thy  Sword 

To  slay  them  in  their  Madness. 


235 


I  kneel  within  a  falling  shrine, 

Before  a  broken  altar; 
An  outworn  creed  I  hold  divine, 

With  loyal  lips  I  falter. 
Between  me  and  a  sacred  flame 

Her  scarlet  robes  are  flaunting; 
Between  me  and  the  Holy  Name 

Her  sacrilegious  vaunting. 

Upon  exceeding  mountain  heights 

Her  Guilty  World  is  tendered. 
But  I  retain  mine  ancient  rights, 

Serenely  unsurrendered. 
She  shall  not  claim  my  sacred  wine, 

The  Sacrament  of  Sorrow; 
The  Bitter  Bread  of  God  is  mine, 

And  mine  is  Death's  Tomorrow. 

Dear  Dead !    The  feet  of  Death  are  clean 

From  all  her  crimson  welter. 
Thou  liest  on  yon  slope  of  green 

With  yon  green  hills  for  shelter. 
And  that  I  loathe  Life's  stain  and  flaw, 

And  also  that  I  love  thee, 
I,  too,  would  rest  by  thee,  and  draw 

Yon  gracious  green  above  me. 


236 


THE   PRAYER  OF  THE  WEST 

Judge  Thou  Between   Them 

We  thank  Thee,  oh,  God  of  our  fathers,  for  the  gift  of  the 

sword  and  the  clew; 
For    the    strength    to    drive   nations  before   us,   for   the 

patience  to  build  them  anew ; 
For    Thy    Light    to    Thy    servants    restricted,    and    Thy 

Promise  reserved  to  the  few. 

We  thank  Thee,  oh,  God,  that  Thy  Wisdom  hath  made  us 

Thy  shepherds,  to  keep 
With  the  sword  of  the  flesh  and  the  spirit,  the  steps  of 

Thy  wandering  sheep. 
That  hath  showed  us  the  fields  of  Thy  harvest,  and  the 

sickle  wherewith  we  shall  reap. 

We  have  set  forth  our  lamps  on  the  mountains,  that  the 

nations  might  see  them  from  far; 
O'er  deserts  and  seas  and  morasses,  we  have  followed  the 

course  of  Thy  Star, 
That  Thy  Light  might  be  got  of  the  shadows,  and  Thy 

Peace  of  the  travail  of  war. 

Thou  art  mighty,  oh,  God,  Thou  art  just, 
And  we  who  are  dust  of  the  dust, 

We  cry  to  Thy  Justice  to  witness  how  well  we  have  served 
in  our  trust. 


237 


We  have  sought  out  the  festering  places;  we  have  swept 

them  with  fire  and  with  sword; 
In  the  dungeons  of  heathenish  darkness,  we  have  let  in 

the  light  of  Thy  Word. 
The  paths  and  the  highways  are  garnished,  and  made  clean 

for  the  steps  of  the  Lord. 

We  have  hunted  their  priests  from  the  altars,  where  the 

blasphemous  wonders  were  shown; 
And    their    heathenish  temples  lie  shattered,  or  standing 

deserted  and  lone, 
Shut  silence  and  shadows  to  worship,  the  impotent  idols 

o'erthrown. 

We  have  broken  their  tyrants,  and  lifted  the  serf  to  the 

heights  of  a  man; 
In  the  race  to  the  swift  and  the  strong,  we  were  foremost, 

but  still,  as  we  ran 
We  paused  in  the  sweating  and  tumult,  and  hewed  to  the 

lines  of  Thy  Plan. 

Thou  art  mighty,  oh,  God,  Thou  art  good, 
If  our  hands  be  not  guiltless  of  blood, 
Yet  we  cry  to  Thy  Goodness  to  witness  how  we  have  with 
held  and  ivithstood. 

Comes  Esau,  the  seller  of  birthrights,  to  clutch  at  a  birth 
right  forsworn; 

Come  princes  of  paganish  peoples;  come  peoples  decadent, 
outworn ; 


238 


And  the  walls  of  Thy  citadel  crumble,  blown  down  by  the 
blast  of  their  horn. 

We  are  thrown  as  a  prey  to  the  spoiler;  they  compass  our 

way  with  their  wrath; 
We  sink  in  their  whirlpools  of  envy,  that  are  set  as  a  pit  in 

our  path  ; 
We  are  flung  from  the  rocks  of  their  hatred,  and  pierced 

by  the  lances  of  Gath. 

Oh,  God  of  our  fathers  from  olden,  Destroyer  and  Builder, 

we  claim 
Thy  Promise,  delivered  in  thunders,  and  circled  by  curses 

of  flame, 
And  Thy  visible  aid,  as  the  sanction  of  the  deeds  we  have 

done  in  Thy  Name. 

Thou  art  mighty,  Lord  Christ,  who  wert  human, 
And  we,  zvho  are  compassed  with  foeman, 
We  cry  to  Thy  throne  for  assistance,  in  the  lifting  of  man 
born  of  woman. 


239 


THE   CRY  OF  THE  EAST 

Judge  Thou  Between  Them 

We  were  great  of  aforetime;  our  fathers,  from  their  seat 

on  the  roof  of  the  world, 
Looked    down    on    the    valleys  beneath  them,  where  the 

smoke  of  their  camp  fires  upcurled, 
And  their  trumpets  rolled  thunders  before  them,  and  their 

strength  on  the  valleys  was  hurled. 

Their  lightnings  flashed  down  from  the  mountains;  they 

girdled  the  earth  with  a  flame; 
They  pressed  to  the  lips  of  the  nations  the  red  cup  of 

trembling  and  shame; 
And    the    lands    fled    away    from   their    coming,    and   the 

desert  sprang  up  when  they  came. 

As  a  ghost  brushed  aside  by  the  morning,  is  the  tale  of  our 

victories  told. 
As  shadows  trod  down  by  the  noonday,  with  our  blood 

grown  more  wise,  or  more  cold, 
We  would  sit  in  the  sun  in  our  fashion  and  worship  our 

Gods  as  of  old. 

Art  Thou  mighty,  oh,  God,  art  Thou  just? 
Then  ive,  who  are  trod  in  the  dust, 

We  cry  to  Thy  justice  to  witness  hoiv  ill  these  have  served 
in  their  trust. 


240 


The  halls  of  the  Orient  echo  to  the  footstep  of  soldier  and 

priest ; 
As  vermin  they  cling  to  her  garments;   as  locusts  flock 

down  to  the  feast; 
As  vultures  sink  claws  in  her  bosom  to  tear  at  the  throat 

of  the  East. 

The  beautiful  temples  are  shattered  and  the  glorious  images 

broke ; 
And  the  holy  signs  and  the  wonders,  at  the  shrines  where 

the  oracles  spoke 
Have  vanished,  like  shadows  at  noonday,  or  columns  of 

wind-driven  smoke. 

They  have  broken  and  banished  our  princes;  the  base  and 

unclean  they  set  high; 
The  rights  of  our  fathers  are  juggled,  and  set  on  the  cast 

of  a  die, 
From  the  tangle  of  red  in  the  centre,  to  the  uttermost  edge 

of  the  sky. 

Art  Thou  mighty,  oh,  God,  art  Thou  good? 
Then  these  torrents  of  innocent  blood 
Shall  sweep  o'er  its  shedders  accusing,  to  the  steps  of  Thy 
throne  in  its  Hood. 

Lo,  the  round  table  feast  of  the  brothers,  and  Esau  sits 

down  to  the  feast; 
Lo,  the  weighing  of  lands  in  the  balance,  and  the  greatest 

sprung  forth  from  the  least; 

241 


Lo,  the  Hour,  brought  to  bed  of  the  Nation,  to  strike  for 
the  rights  of  the  East. 

And  the  trump  of  the  Gods  on  the  mountains,  that  calls  to 

the  peoples  from  far, 
That  they  rise  in  the  mirk  of  the  midnight,  and  watch  for 

the  light  of  the  Star, 
Begot  at  the  barbaric  bridals,  and  borne  in  the  travail  of 

war. 

Such  "faith,"  to  the  faithless  we  proffer,  as  lies  in  the  lie 

of  our  word; 
Such   "brotherhood,"   bastard-begotten;    such    "peace"   as 

the  wars  may  afford; 
Such  "rights"  as  are  spat  from  the  rifles,  and  caught  on 

the  point  of  the  sword. 

To  the  Gods  of  our  race  in  the  distance, 
We  cry,  with  pathetic  persistence, 

With  the  cry  of  the  younger  begot,  for  we  claim  but  the 
right  to  existence. 


242 


THE    POET'S    PROTOTYPE 

I  envy  not  the  God  of  Light 
His  dalliance  with  the  Dawn; 

I  envy  not  the  Queen  of  Night 
To  young  Endymion, 

Nor  Zeus  his  compelling  might; 
I  am  Bellerophon. 

Men  call  me  mad  for  that  I  keep 

A  tryst  beyond  their  ken; 
A  light  above  yon  upper  deep 

Beckons  to  me  again; 
I  mount  my  winged  steed  and  sweep 

Beyond  the  sight  of  men. 

A  Splendid  Passion  is  my  guest 
Who  bars  the  door  to  Sleep, 

Who  in  the  dungeons  of  my  breast 
Bids  captive  Reason  weep, 

Who  drives  the  wounded  feet  of  Rest 
Up  yonder  starry  steep. 

We  mount  the  path  of  stars  that  shine 

Beyond  the  earth's  eclipse; 
From  fountains  of  the  Soul  Divine 

A  Radiant  Madness  drips; 
Gasping,  I  drink  the  Hallowed  Wine 

With  foaming  of  the  lips. 

243 


THE    MUSE    TO    A    MERCENARY    "POET' 

Lackey  and  scullion !     Dost  thou  seek  for  hire 
To  trail  the  white  robes  of  the  God  in  mire? 
Think'st  thou  to  fill  the  bounds  of  thy  base  need 
With  a  King's  Ransom,  or  a  Poet's  Meed? 
Or  wilt  thou  set  the  holiest  Muse  of  Art 
A  common  drab  upon  the  public  mart? 
Soul  hunger  shalt  thou  know  and  not  be  fed ; 
Though  thy  gross  body  find  its  fill  of  bread.' 
Soul  thirst  shall  parch  thee  with  an  arid  heat; 
Though  pleasant  waters  sparkle  at  thy  feet. 
Pleasure  shall  seek  and  woo  thee  as  a  bride; 
Thou  shalt  arise — filled  and  unsatisfied. 
A  Voice  shall  cry  to  thee  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Faint  through  the  earth  born  ringing  in  thy  ear; 
A  Light  shall  shine  for  thee  and  thou  shalt  see ' 
With  clouded  vision,  dim  and  fitfully; 
Voice  and  Light  beckon  to  thee,  but  never  again 
Through  all  thy  dolorous  days  of  joy  or  pain 
Shalt  thou  the  Sword,  or  the  Lost  Clew  regain. 
Dust  of  the  earth  !     Clay  of  the  common  clay ! 
Go  down  to  shadows  with  thy  little  day. 
But  till  thy  night  fall,  my  revenge  I  wreak, 
The  Agony  of  Lips  that  may  not  Speak. 


244 


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